Dead or Alive
by Number One Fan of Journey
Summary: The Careers of the 61st Hunger Games were all but untrained, but their Games was still as brutal as any other. Of course, every tribute had his or her own story- and all are told here.
1. District One Reaping

Author's Note: Welcome to the fiction, all. Adrenaline Write and I proudly present the stories we own of the tributes we don't own.

* * *

(Robin Zabat, Female, District 1)

I rise groggily from the bed, a sharp beeping echoing and bouncing in my ears. Quickly, I sweep a glare to my alarm clock, which reads an unforgiving five-thirty. I blink the sleep out of my eyes to get a better, undistorted view of my room. My feet thump against the squeaking, wood floor as I find my way to the plain gray dresser.

I like my house. It feels less extravagant and easier to live in than most of the houses in District One, which range from plastered in marble and gold to studded with all sorts of gems I couldn't bother to learn the names of. More… lively.

My hands automatically carry out the morning routine. I fumble into a charcoal tunic and jeans whilst pulling my messy, dark hair into a practical bun. My gaze shoots to the door frame as a small pattering emits from the paws of Fargo.

He slides towards me on the floor as I drop to my knees, a rare smile playing lightly on my lips. "Hi, Buddy," I whisper, scratching behind his ears as he struggles to keep balance on his pudgy legs. He follows eagerly as I pull myself up and make my way downstairs.

Sitting at our quaint, yet dainty glass-framed table are my father and mother. My gaze falls to the barren, miserable woman, whose face is planted in her hands, her skin something alike leather, rough and calloused. I can barely see one dark eye beneath her arms, just as weathered and worn as her body. The image brings me to the thought that frequents my brain whenever I see her.

She was running. Used to be professional, whizzing through the streets with no recollection of anything but the pulsing in her brain, telling her to go faster. Faster. It was the only thing keeping her on the edge of sanity when her life was so weighed down, with a demanding toddler to take care of and the financial problems crushing on her shoulders. She was never careful enough, and her refuge nearly totally damaged her brain. No one ever told me exactly what she did while she was running that broke her kneecap. Might as well damage her brain, with the way she took it. Being unable to walk. She's been swimming in her own depression for more than ten years, too weak and mentally disabled to do anything herself.

"Has she eaten?" I venture sternly to my father, Jude.

My accomplice, I guess I could call him. I love him more than anything in the world, but I don't think we've ever had enough moments a father and daughter should have, between working to have food on the table, school, sleeping, and keeping my mother alive, we don't have time for chit chat and such. It tore him apart to see his wife so battered, torn from him in soul, but he didn't have time to mourn for her loss. He had to teach me what to do to help, and how to uphold the family until he could.

It makes me furious with her. I'll just look into her eyes… those hopeless, misty eyes and I'll want to slap her. Scream ugly words at her uselessness. I know it's not fair, she never meant for it to happen. But she drastically changed, maybe even destroyed what our family was.

"A small amount of oatmeal and ham. Not nearly enough," he answers, his face twisting into a frown. My expression mirrors his as I walk close to her, gently rapping my fingers over her arm.

"Mum, you're going to starve yourself," I say firmly, trying to coax some eggs into her mouth.

"Mhmm!" she protests through the food, and Jude and I share sighs of anxiety.

In the end, I force a few sips of milk into her, until she realizes just how thirsty she is. Fervently, she gulps down the rest of the liquid while avoiding our glances. As I stare her down, I hear the swivel of a chair as Jude turns to me.

"It's the reaping today," he murmurs, fixing a pained gaze on me.

"Yes, it is," I reply listlessly, my thoughts straying from the conversation to my mother. But I force myself to take in what he's getting at.

"Normally I wouldn't be as worried… but…" He trails off. I know what he's thinking. Ever since a freak accident in the gem mines (apparently the makeshift 'ceiling' had collapsed, sending a chain reaction of rock crushing and killing at least twenty would-be Careers) the odds have tipped to be less in my favor. The ones that did survive were horribly injured, probably too damaged to even think of volunteering.

It's never bothered me. The Hunger Games, I mean. There are so many people that whine and let themselves just fall apart before it even happens. It's just another annoying, although particularly big obstacle that I'm bound to be faced with.

So I give him a genuine, promising smile. "It would be an experience, wouldn't it?" My response is met with a nervous chuckle.

"Alright Robin, go get ready," Jude states, planting a kiss on the top of my head before shooing me off.

Once I'm in my room, my gaze flits to the white eyelet dress draped over the rocking chair, then the blasted alarm clock. I'm surprised how much time has passed when the obnoxious red proclaims it to be quarter to seven. I'm changed into the dress in a matter of seconds, which has been paired with a pair of short heels my mother used to wear. I then find myself in the upstairs bathroom, applying a small amount of charcoal to my eyelids that again, used to be in my mother's possession. I graze through my hair with a silver comb, and barely have time to look myself in the mirror before I'm out the door. I expect my mother and father to come to the square later.

The sixteens' area is in my view as I walk into the outskirts of the square. The sun glints on all the gaping silver skyscrapers that circle the area, blinding me and rendering my vision distorted. My hand automatically shoots to my brow, covering my view of the buildings.

Sometimes I wish our District had more than just impressive, flamboyant business buildings and Capitol-like stores that could house nearly two hundred thousand. Watching the past reapings opens my eyes to the beauty of nature, the presence of rough, tall trees instead of intimidating, manmade structures.

As I weave through the crowd, I'm presented with yet another familiar yet unnerving object. The cameras that lurk over us, manned by chirping, all too cheery Capitolites that surprisingly know what they're doing. It's always fascinated me, how they work and how the footage can be fed to our television sets at home. How long did it take to possibly find the technology? Was the creator paid a great deal of money for his invention? When did it even take place?

My own curiosity brings a raw smile to my lips. Didn't they say curiosity killed the cat?

I'm snapped back to reality by a kind, friendly voice that wafts to my ears slightly far away.

"Robin!" Maggie's slender hand shoots into the air and waves to me, a knowing, soft smile spread across her face. I wouldn't mind having a nice chat with my best friend at the moment, but her being in the seventeens makes it less than possible.

"Nervous?" I shout to her, grinning mischievously. I'm taken aback slightly when she shrugs her shoulders, her once playful gaze rather foggy.

And so it begins.

Maggie's father, Mayor Wysor, steps onto the stage and recites his yearly speech, as protocol. His words, however clear and firm, become garbled as I lose interest, finding my father in the audience and beaming at him. He beams back, although his gaze seems weathered as I turn from him. The mayor strides off the stage, and is replaced with our escort, Serenity Gambrell, who is about as serene as she is intelligent with her ability to make the audience feel like they are in a living hell, surrounded by chirpy voices and ostentatious yellow skin.

She speaks, or rather 'squeaks' so quickly that I can only here a string of jumbled words, but I catch 'tributes', 'ladies first', and something about her new hairstyle. Shaking my head, I watch as she stumbles in her ten inch heels to the reaping bowl. Her manicured nails claw around until she finds a slip, and it's funny not to see all the Careers gearing up to tackle each other for a chance to volunteer.

"Robin Zabat!"

I can't say I'm surprised when I feel so nonchalant. Everything just feels so natural; I'm not crying and I'm not celebrating. It's nice. Nice and normal.

There are several sounds of protest: Maggie's strangled, horrified cry, my Father's sharp intake of breath after he tries to shout, and my Mother's small weeping. I want to comfort them all, show them I'm not sad and they shouldn't be either, but I'm stuck up here. Instead, I decide to give them each a reassuring wink. It doesn't make anyone lean back and yawn contentedly, but it seems to calm them down a little.

Before I know it, the male's name is called and surprisingly his place is taken by a volunteer, and I am face to face with a slightly lanky boy with an insidious look on his face. After shaking each other's hands quickly, we are ushered away by the Peacekeepers and into our separate visiting rooms in the Justice Building.

I feel so out of place amongst the gilded objects and velvet seats, but the uncomfortable thoughts are whisked away when Maggie enters the room. We share a crushing hug, and her thoughts seem on overdrive as she gives me every piece of advice she can cram into her sentences.

"Evade, evade, evade," she blurts sternly, although her eyes don't show what her tone does, "and be yourself in front of the cameras. You're already a great personality, and I want you coming home the same."

I nod and smile broadly to my best friend, watching her exit with tears streaming down her face.

"You worry too much, Maggie!" I say playfully just as the door closes.

And I'm only left alone in the room for a fraction of a second before my family comes pouring in. Jude envelopes me in a hug before I have a chance to say anything, whispering words of comfort into my ear as I breathe in his scent, and I can't help but feel a small bit of heartache at the thought of being away from my father for a few weeks.

"You take care of Mum while I'm on vacation, alright?" I say dryly, flashing a grin. He chuckles half-heartedly and gives me a smile of his own. Then he pulls away, and none other than my mum is beside me, lowering herself in the chair and pulling her crutches to her lap.

Those eyes, again. So bursting with emotion that I can't look away, so glassy yet brave and so completely unforgivable.

"Don't run too fast when you're in there."

Never have words moved me so beyond comparison, and I'm utterly stupefied when I feel tears pricking my eyes. Somehow, this odd luck has brought me closer to the person I'd vowed to hate, and I know that I can't hate her anymore.

The kiss she plants on my cheek lingers long after they are gone.

* * *

(Clovis Noken, Male, District 1)

"_I know you're a fairly new recruit, but, because of the accident, we have no choice. You will volunteer for the Hunger Games this year."_

That's what they told me last night. That my life would be thrown to the arena in a mad, last-ditch effort to bring wealth to the district. That whatever hopes I had for the future, for myself and Alia, would be shredded to shapeless fragments.

I couldn't take it. I lashed out at the official who'd sentenced me to this, hearing a faint snap somewhere in his jaw before I was suddenly restrained by a few others.

I can't quite remember the rest. Resistance, trying to break away, getting a hit on _someone_… And then even the garbled part of my memory stops. I must have gotten knocked out one way or another.

But now I'm conscious again and back in my own home by some unknown means. The cold, empty dawn stretches out across my window, and the lightless scene inside my room isn't much warmer, either.

The fact hasn't changed. They want me to volunteer. To destroy everything I've put into my relationship with Alia—the only person I've ever even begun to get along with. The only person I've ever loved.

"—Well, guess what?" My voice seems oddly loud in the early-morning silence as I stand up from my bed.

"I won't do it." My feet start to take me to my desk.

"I won't… play by your rules." My hands shuffle hurriedly, clumsily through a drawer until they finally find what they've been looking for.

"I'd rather—" I grip the handle and hold the tool high—

"_Die!_"

I slash the knife down, cutting into my wrist.

"Clovis!" My hands are suddenly ripped apart, leaving me to stare at my unfinished wound while I try to analyse the voice.

"Clovis, what are you _doing_?"

I finally put the voice together as Alia's.

"I…" Loosening my frantic grip on the blade, I look away from it to see Alia's eyes staring concernedly into mine.

"…I don't know…"

Alia gently lets go of my hands and starts to slip the knife away from my grasp. I release it without resistance, and she sets it on the top of my desk, as far away from me as possible.

"Don't do this, Clovis…" she sighs, taking my left hand in hers. This causes some of the blood to trickle onto her fingers, but she doesn't seem to mind. "It won't help anything." She starts to lead me out of my room and into the slightly lighter hallway. "We can't be together if you're dead."

"If I don't die here, I'll die in the Games," I can't help but mutter.

"Clovis."

"You know I'm not ready for this! I've only been a Career for six months." I notice Alia has stopped just before she flicks the kitchen lights on. I reflexively squint as she continues to lead me onward.

"That doesn't matter, Clovis." Alia lets go of my hand to open a drawer. She shuffles around for a minute before pulling out a spool of gauze. "You're smart enough, I know. And I bet half the Careers at the center couldn't beat you in arm wrestling." She cracks a small smile as she starts to wrap the gauze around my wrist.

"You'd be surprised." My words are more for myself than her—she knows this. It's hard to look at her and think she doesn't know a lot more about me than I do.

I watch as Alia cuts off the gauze and presses the end to the rest of it.

"But more importantly," she says, as if I had never objected, "you have the best reason to come home." She grins.

"…Yeah…"

Alia puts the leftover gauze up and takes my hand back in hers. "You do love me, don't you, Clovis?"

I reply without hesitation. "Yes."

"Then you'll win and come back to me, won't you, Clovis?" She looks me in the eye, and I'm mesmerized by her sapphire gaze for a moment.

"…I'll try."

"No," Alia replies harshly, her visage suddenly turning fierce. "You _will _win." She stares me down expectantly. "Promise me you'll win."

"…I promise."

"All right." Her features lighten to her natural, gentler disposition. She gets up on the balls of her feet so she'll reach my own height, and without another thought, we kiss.

"Clovis…? What are you doing up so early?"

We break off awkwardly as my mom stumbles into the kitchen.

"Alia…? How did you get in here?" Mom yawns.

"Good morning, Jewel," Alia starts. "I just thought Clovis would be a bit nervous about the reapings, so I came over. I hope we didn't wake you up."

"No, no." Mom gives her head a wake-up shake, displacing her already-tangled morning mess of a blonde braid. "Nothing wrong with starting the day a bit early."

Alia nods her recognition and nudges me out of the path between Mom and the coffee machine. Mom staggers past without a glance at my obviously bloodied bandage.

Ah, sweet, oblivious Mother. She probably means the best, but what do I know? She's been at the gold-working factories so much I haven't really known her since Dad died.

Dad… I feel like I don't know him much anymore, either. It's been four years since he was killed by a Peacekeeper for an unsuccessful raid on a luxury item shipment. Four years since I had taken up his "occupation" and accumulated quite a nice pile of valuable goods. Only a few months since I was caught. Sure of an identical death but handed a different sentence. One that would put my skills and strength to use for the district.

And that's the sentence of becoming a Career tribute.

I didn't like it at first. Monotony, the same routines day after day, without any considerable haul as a reward. But I learned how to fight, how to hunt, how to stay alive in any situation, how to kill in any situation. And I started to like it.

But now I can clearly remember how horrible a sentence this is. Being thrown into the Games and away from Alia. But…

I look over at Alia's angelic face, and she beams.

…But I'll come back for her. For sure.

I give her a quick peck on the cheek and put my lips near her ear.

"…What do you say we get to the reaping early today?"


	2. District Two Reaping

Author's Note: First and foremost, we apologize profusely for all the waiting we've made you do. My cowriter has hit a rough patch and has temporarily lost her writing inspiration, so as of now it looks like I will be writing the remainder of this story myself. I know this may be a disappointment for you, and some may have given up this story as dead and stopped bothering to check. Either way, I don't honestly expect for everyone that started to keep up, but that's okay. As long as I have promised this fic and people are reading it, it will be written. The updates may not be that speedy - although they definitely won't take as long as this one - but they will be.

Once again, apologies for the wait. I hope I can make it up to you.

* * *

(Christine Hamblin, Female, District 2)

I wake abruptly to pounding on the door.

"Christine!" comes a half-drunk-sounding howl. "Get _up_!"

Ugh. Mom. My name is weird enough as is, without her mouth making it sound so horrible. I mean, "Christine"? Sounds like something random from history class or something. I _would_ go by my middle name, which sounds a little more normal, if "Evangeline" rolled off the tongue a little better.

But it doesn't. So Christine it is.

With a grumpy sigh, I flop out of my bed. I wish reapings weren't so _early _in District 2…

"Chris_tine_!"

"I'm coming, Mom!"

I try not to sound too harsh—she's my mother after all—but she's such a spoiled brat sometimes that it's hard to be polite to her.

The incessant knocking continues until I finally wrench the door open. Mom stares at me, hand poised above the wood for a moment, before she registers I'm awake.

"Ah, you're up." She puts her hand down. "Well, get ready. Reaping's in two hours." She stalks off to the hallway, leaving me staring after her.

Two hours? Now, I might not be the speediest person when it comes to getting ready in the morning, but I don't need _two hours_.

Oh, but my dear, high-maintenance mother does. And if _she _isn't sleeping, nobody should be. Ugh.

With a sigh of resignation, I hit the shower. It's all mine—good, since sharing a bathroom with two little boys and two parents wouldn't be pretty.

I finish up my shower and get dressed. It's reaping day, so I'll be wearing something extra nice—as compared to the fairly nice garb I have access to as the district mayor's daughter.

Browsing through my overstuffed closet, I pick out a sparkling, strapless dress in a lovely shade of cerulean that makes my blue-green eyes pop. Although I haven't worn the thing in at least a year, it still fits just fine. I'm not really the kind of girl who can put on any weight, after all.

Some slightly scuffed-up white heels—not too tall; I'm tall enough already—find their way onto my feet, and I trot over to my body-length mirror and check how I look. I run my brush through my curly, blonde hair one last time before tiptoeing toward the kitchen.

It looks like Mom's woken everyone up. Dad and Mathew, and even 6-year-old Richard, are positioned about the dinner table gnawing on some scrambled eggs.

"Morning, Chris'," Dad calls the second his mouth isn't full. "There's more breakfast on the stove."

"Got it."

My heels clop as I make my way to the still-warm frying pan and scrape some eggs onto a plate.

The rest of my family isn't all that accustomed to breakfast, it seems. Dad's usually busy working in his office, or elsewhere in the district. Mom's… well, Mom. And Mathew and Richard are hyper enough in the mornings without gobbling down some sugary cereal.

—Wow. All of the kids in this family have weird names, don't they?

Just another way for Mom to annoy us, I guess.

I go ahead and eat my breakfast—as always, it's nothing sloppy, so I don't spill anything on my nice clothes—at the table with them. Unpestered by conversation, I finish quickly. While I put my dish in the sink with a clunk, I check the clock.

It's still an hour before the reaping starts.

I am so glad this is going to be my last reaping. It seems so pointless to get up early and dress up and sign in and get in line and listen to the treaty and watch the newest batch of Careers come up year after year after year. I'd rather just ignore it all. It's really not worth the effort.

Now that I think about it, though, there might not be Careers this year, with that "Tribute Training Facility" conflagration and all. I'm not sure who all was in there when the building caught fire, but I know they ended up dead.

—It's a horrible thing to think about. Sure, I despise the Careers for dedicating themselves to killing, but… I certainly wouldn't prefer them dead.

…Oh, well. What's done is done. I just have to go to this reaping, watch some unlucky people be reaped, and go back home to chat with some friends on the phone.

"Sis?" I'm broken from my reverie by Mathew's voice. Looking away from the clock, I turn until I can see him holding something behind his back.

"Yes, Mathew?" I respond curiously.

Mathew fidgets for a minute before finally deciding to show me what he's brought with him. "I made you somethin'." He holds out a slightly-wrinkled piece of paper, and I take it carefully. Its surface is covered with a swirling pattern of flowers so detailed it's hard to believe a 10-year-old could have done it.

But that's Mathew for you. He just amazes.

"Thanks, Mathew!" I bend over to give him a peck on the cheek. "It's wonderful."

My brother beams.

"Hey, Mathew?" Dad calls from the table. "You going to finish your breakfast?"

"Oh, yeah! Sorry!" I have to stifle a laugh as Mathew scrambles back to the dinner table.

…In the end, I really do like my family.

* * *

The Treaty of Treason is _so long_. It's bad enough to have to be here in the first place. Why do we have to listen to this, too?

Eventually, though, Dad finishes reading and backs away for our district escort to take the stage.

She announces her name, Frilli Coudroy, in a Capitol-accent-heavy, oddly-low voice, and then clip-clops in her bright blue heels to the reaping bowls.

"Ladies first…" She sticks a hand in and swirls the slips around before plucking one out.

"And our female tribute is… Christine Hamblin!"

…

…

Say what, now?

…This can't be right. Me? _Me? _I-I can't get picked… There must be some sort of mistake…

But the other eighteens around have formed a path for me, and Dad's face—over in the Mayor's reserved area—is pale as can be.

I make my way to the stage slowly.

"Any volunteers?" Frilli calls as I step up next to her.

…There are none. All the Career tribute organizing we've done in this district is useless this year. Because of that one fire that killed so many prospective Careers.

…And maybe… it's going to kill me, too.

…

No. It won't. I'll survive this. I know I can. I may not be all that strong, but… I can do this.

While the escort is clip-clopping over to the boys' bowl, I slip a glance over to Dad and wink.

_I'll make it home, _I will him to understand. _Don't be worried._

And, just the slightest bit, his face starts to regain its natural color.

* * *

(Jendra Reeseburn, Male, District 2)

It's reaping day again. I don't mind it much—I get a day off from the quarries, and I get to sleep in a little—but it's sort of a waste of time. This is District 2, after all. No average quarry worker like me is going to really get reaped. We have more Careers than any other district, so there are plenty ready to take a guy's place. It's almost pointless to show up.

But I do. There's still a fine, and, although my family's not dirt-poor or anything, it's not the kind of thing we'll be welcoming.

Pushing away my bedsheets, I stumble out into the dining room. A meter away, in the kitchen, it looks like Rerkan's making breakfast. While I'm normally used to grabbing a breakfast bar and running, I definitely don't object to this change. The most cooking anyone else in this family can manage is pouring water in a pot and heating it, but Rerkan's more or less a master chef. Not sure how he can do that, but he's had a knack for it just about all nineteen years of his life.

He's preparing several styles of eggs today, as well as some bacon.

"Morning, bro," I greet, pulling out some cups and the jug of milk.

"Morning, Jendra," he responds, craning his neck a little to glance at me. "Our resident insomniac get some sleep last night?"

"A little," I reply, unscrewing the lid from the milk carton and starting to pour.

"Cool."

"Did I sleep in late or somethin'?"

I turn at the newcomer's voice to see Mika, my thirteen-year-old brother. He stumbles into the kitchen scratching at the brown hair whose dark hue matches mine.

"Little bit," Rerkan responds, flipping over one of the eggs on the stove. "Still up before Mom and Dad, though."

Mika stretches, checking the kitchen clock. "Man. Why are they sleeping in so late? They up late last night?"

"Maybe," Rerkan responds, a humorous gleam in his eye that I recognize too well.

"No awkward jokes, please," I request before he goes on. The cook pouts overexaggeratedly, crossing his arms.

"But awkward jokes are the best kind."

"I disagree," I say, Mika echoing me.

Rerkan shrugs with a small laugh and goes back to fixing up breakfast.

And that's Rerkan in a nutshell, ladies and gentlemen: he cooks, he jokes around. Not always in an awkward way, thankfully.

Mika sets himself down in a chair as Dad finally walks in.

"Morning, Dad," my little brother says immediately, beating me to the punch like he does most mornings. I repeat the phrase lamely, giving Mika a playful stink-eye.

"Good morning, kids," Dad responds, looking around the room. He settles into one of the chairs without another word.

Dad's just not that good with conversation. Never has been. How he hooked up with a cheerful chatterbox like Mom is beyond me.

And, speak of the devil—Miss Rulen Reeseburn is ambling into the room now.

"Good _moooor_ning, everyone!" she hums in a way completely inconsistent with someone who's just woken up. Mom, in her socks, slides around a little on the wooden floor before flinging her arms around the nearest person: me. "And how are you doing today, Jendra?"

"Probably not as well as you," I respond, hugging her back, a hint of a laugh in my voice.

"You think?" she responds with a grin, pulling back.

"He doesn't think, he _knows_," Rerkan intervenes happily. "Food's ready, everybody. Grab a plate and line up."

We follow his instructions without hesitation.

* * *

I don't like this tux. Clothes tend to be either too short for me, or they're the right height but made for someone with more muscle. Not to say I'm seven feet tall or bone-skinny or anything, but I'm at a somewhat inconvenient medium.

In fact, I blend in with the fifteens in my section pretty well. I blend in with anything pretty well, for that matter. Kind of muscular, a little tall, skin fairly olive-colored, hair a common shade of dark brown. A look at me won't make the ladies run off in terror, but I'm not apt to attract them much, either.

Not having a gang of close friends with whom to pass the time, I shift my weight to my other foot a few times waiting for the reaping to get started.

And it starts soon enough. The treaty is read, the escort comes up, picks the girl. It's Christine, the mayor's daughter. Don't know her personally, but I've seen her in the school hallways a few times.

The escort calls for volunteers. Surprisingly, a second passes without a response. Another second. Another. And soon enough, the escort decides there's no one to take Christine's place.

That's… weird. I know the Career training place caught on fire, but… There's no way it took out _all _of the Careers. Just… all of the female ones? That's crazy…

"Jendra Reeseburn!"

I snap my attention back to the stage, even though my gaze had never left it.

Oh. I guess I've been reaped.

I walk up to the stage quickly. The escort calls for volunteers.

And still no one jumps in.

Okay… What's going on here? The fire couldn't have been bad enough to kill all of them… I bet a lot were injured, but enough to miss the Games?

Another moment passes without a volunteer.

Hey—come on! There had to have been someone—someone skipping training that day or something-!

"And I present your tributes for the 61st Annual Hunger Games!"

That's me. That's _me_. I'm going to the Hunger Games.

…

This day isn't turning out as well as I thought it would.


	3. District Three Reaping

(Bellanca Groven, Female, District 3)

"Okay, guys, I'm off," I announce to the family, striding off toward the sections of the town square. It takes some maneuvering—which in itself isn't all that easy when I'm all wrapped up in a twisting, blue reaping dress—but soon I'm amongst the sixteens.

"Hey—Blinky!" Recognizing my friendly nickname before recognizing the voice, I turn toward the sound quickly.

And then I slump.

"Yolin," I return monotonically before turning back around.

Ugh. Yolin. She was my friend once, but she doesn't know how to respond to a little criticism. Tell someone else that Yolin's a "mindless sheep" _one_ time, and, poof, she's gone. She still calls me "Blinky", even though that's supposed to be reserved for my _real _friends.

Speaking of which…

"Anda! Maurel!" I start, spotting the familiar curly blonde and bushy-haired brunette heads of my gal pals.

Anda whips around cheerfully, while Maurel turns in a more reserved, but no less pleased, manner.

"Blinky!" Anda answers joyfully, throwing an arm around me when I approach.

Maurel smiles, nodding in acknowledgement of my presence. "How are you doing, Blinky?"

"Aside from being slowly pushed off my feet by an overexcited sixteen-year-old, pretty well."

Anda badly stifles a laugh and pulls back. I finally get to shift my weight back to a balanced position.

It's not that hard for Anda to "accidentally" bowl me over sometimes. She's a little taller than me—I'm about 5'6"—and, unlike her, I only have about the amount of muscle necessary to beat a thirteen-year-old in arm wrestling.

Needless to say, I don't do any of the heavy lifting at my family's wire shop. Believe me, there are plenty of other jobs around there to keep me _more_ than busy.

Not that I hate being busy with the shop. I'm not pleased at getting covered in grease and grime from working all the time, but I'm so used to it by now I don't mind all that much.

Despite the obvious circumstances, it's still nice to be scrubbed clean for today. Although, honestly, I'm not that fond of being able to discern my skin's rather unappealing yellowish shade, either.

But, hey. Win some, lose some. What can you do?

Before I have much more time to chat with my friends, the reaping ceremony has begun. The mayor reads his speech and steps back to let the escort have his turn.

I'll put it frankly: the escort's a freak. Even by Capitol standards. Red-and-aqua-colored scaly skin; tiny, cerise bat wings at his shoulders; oddly-twisting, beige-white horns at either side of his head… Sometimes the Capitol-style body alterations look alright, but definitely not here.

The escort trots—literally; his feet have warped hooves attached to them—to the center of the stage, telling us how excited he is to be here, et cetera, et cetera. After he gets about zero response, he finally goes over to the girls' bowl. Plucking a slip right off the top and center of the contained heap, he holds the paper to his eyes before reading it.

"Bellanca Groven!"

Wait—what?

Anda and Maurel freeze in horror, but it takes me a moment longer to realize what just happened.

I've been reaped.

Well—I guess I'd better get up there, then…

Taking a deep breath, I start pushing through the crowd until I'm finally up to the stage. I take the few steps up to it and turn to face the audience.

I keep the strongest expression I can muster on my face as some of the Capitol's videocameras zoom in. I don't have an intimidating physique, so my visage is about all I have going for me.

But that's all right. The Capitol knows—the _sponsors _know—that the winner isn't always a physically strong tribute. It's just as often been the smart one.

And I'm from 3. They already assume I'm smart—I _am_ a bit above average, even by my district's standards—and now they can see that I'm tough, mentally if nothing else.

Tough enough to keep a straight face, at least. Tough enough to not have panic rising inside me like an overwhelming tidal surge—not so much.

I know I could win. I could set traps, I could make allies, I could get sponsors. But there's just as much chance of me losing. I don't know what's coming. I don't know if the Gamemakers will like me. I don't know what the arena will throw at me. And I don't know how I'll do out there, having to go around killing…

The cameras suddenly making me feel more nervous, I look out at the live crowd. All of the other kids staring up at me and the boy who must have been called while I was pushing down a slight mental breakdown. Anda biting back tears and Maurel watching worriedly. Farther in the back, the other citizens stand. It only takes me one more moment to locate my family.

Mother exasperatedly hiding her face in her hands. Father, whose black hair and brown eyes match mine, focusing on me through his glasses despairingly. My big sister Reran, rapidly running her fingers through her long, brown hair like she always does when she's overstressed.

Seeing them all like this doesn't help me keep up this appearance, so I look away. The escort instructs the male tribute and me to shake hands, and I comply halfheartedly.

The realization of what's actually just happened, where I'm going, starts to sink in at last, and I can't keep myself from wringing my hands nervously.

I'm ushered into the Justice Building just before I finally break down, clinging tightly to the couch cushions and begging whatever power governs the world to let me survive this.

* * *

(Lyel Thalium, Male, District 3)

I'm awake, but I'm not getting up. It's kind of nice to just lie around and drowse for a little while, you know? Wrapped up in comfy white sheets, not thinking about anything, surrounded by a nice silence...

That is, until I hear the tiniest creak of the bedroom door opening. A sudden flurry of jingles approaches, and before I can react, something springs on top of me. I hear loud sniffing noises, and little puffs of air have been blown all around my face before I finally sit up.

"...Morning, Bodie," I yawn, finally perceiving that my attacker is my Weimaraner puppy.

Bodie's only response is a drawn-out lick to the face.

"Yeah, yeah, love you, too." I pet him lazily between the ears and throw some of my sheets off.

"Lyel! You up?" I recognize the distant call as my older sister Malia's.

"Yeah!"

"Okay, well, breakfast is ready!"

" 'Kay!" I throw my feet over the edge of the bed, and, once Bodie finally decides to stop sitting on me, stand up. Hastily throwing a white-ish shirt—fresh off the floor—on, I stride out the door, through the vacant den, and into the kitchen.

Mom and Dad are already seated, conversing about Mom's latest repair job—apparently a complex refrigerator, which, despite her expertise in all things handyman, she can't seem to fix. Malia is up filling plates with a concoction of delicious-smelling eggs and sausage next to the Breakfast Machine.

Ah, the Breakfast Machine. Malia's school project from when she was eight—she's _always_been a whiz-kid—designed to make the perfect scrambled eggs. It's so overly complicated, with so many whimsically-arranged levers and pulleys, an average guy like me won't even try to figure it all out. All I know is it kind of reminds me of a machine from one ancient movie I saw with a crazy scientist and a DeLorean.

Malia sets Mom's and Dad's plates in front of them, and I sit down. I busy myself trying to get my too-long, straight, blonde bangs out of my face while my sister grabs the two remaining plates and comes back over.

"So, you ready for that physics test next week?" Malia starts, forking some eggs.

"Uh, I've studied a bunch, yeah," I reply, looking down at my food rather than anyone's face.

That's the best answer I can give, considering I'm not exactly what you'd call book-smart. And coming from the district's best handywoman—when it comes to something other than refrigerators, at least—and one of its best inventors, not to mention having a genius-IQ sister, I'm a bit of a disappointment. To everyone.

They try not to show it, though.

We get through the rest of the meal in silence—no one wants to say anything about my grades, and there's nothing else current to talk about but the reaping.

...Yeah. That's today, isn't it? Guess I'll have to get dressed up. Head over and listen to the Treaty of Treason. Pray for the third time my name won't get picked. Head back home and do my best to avoid the gruesome broadcast that follows.

So, I head back to my room and browse through my closet. I end up picking out a tux that's slightly too small—while I'm naturally skinny, doing heavy lifting at the factory has given me a pretty good build—and pants that don't quite stretch to my ankles—I'm pretty tall, too.

I strip off my wrinkled undershirt and search for something a little more well-pressed. Finding a suitable long-sleeved shirt, I pluck it from its warped hanger and shut the closet door. The shirt is eased carefully over my back, concealing the old, long scars from a whip.

I was 11 years old, and not the most dexterous kid in the world. One klutzy moment, a lot of broken glass and porcelain across the factory floor, and then the horrible punishment that came with it.

I haven't been whipped since. It's not because the factory overseer that sentenced me to that castigation had changed—I only _wish _Mr. Mihag would get fired—but because I've managed not to screw anything else up. Hopefully this streak'll last.

I throw on the rest of my suit, stomp on some black shoes, and look myself over in the mirror. My hair's still all in my sea-green eyes, and my jacket still doesn't look like it fits, but oh, well. This is all the Capitol's going to get.

* * *

"All right, Lyel," Malia says, starting to step away from me toward her own reaping section. "See you later!"

"See you." I make my own way to the fourteens' section. It's crowded even though the actual ceremony isn't until five minutes. I have a bit of trouble getting through the crowd and even more trouble not stepping on feet on the way.

"Lyel!"

I turn curiously, and my height allows me to easily spot who called me.

"Hey, Giyan. What's up?" I respond as my best friend for eleven years makes her way toward me.

"Not much," she replies, tucking a strand of her brown hair behind her ear as she nears me. "Just... well, reapings."

"Yeah?" Giyan finally catches up with me. "You ready for that physics test?"

The mayor steps up to start his speech, but Giyan and I keep whispering.

Giyan's not that ready, either, since she's also not your standard "District 3 genius". That's probably one of the reasons we've connected so much.

I vaguely notice the escort stepping up to speak by the time I get to telling Giyan about my rude awakening this morning. I pay just enough attention to the drawing of the girl's name to make sure it's not Malia or Giyan and then go back to talking.

"Yeah, Bodie's a weird one, isn't—"

"Lyel Thalium!"

I cut off abruptly and look up in confusion.

What just happened? I heard my name somewhere, but...

"Lyel Thalium?" The escort's lips move in sync with the same voice as before.

Wait... What...?

The escort just called my name...

Wh-What? I-I got reaped?

Waveringly, I start for the stage.

O-Okay, this... This is really happening.

Crap—this is really happening!

I try to keep myself from looking scared as I approach the stage, though I can't prevent myself from biting my lip.

The escort calls for volunteers, but there are none.

I taste a little bit of blood on my lip as I nervously clamp down harder.

"I present your tributes for District 3!"

I'm a tribute. I'm going off to the Hunger Games.

...

Guess I won't have to worry about that physics test.


	4. District Four Reaping

(Embreli Lueaz, Female, District 4)

My alarm clock goes off far too soon. Since I decided to stay up a _tiny _bit late last night reading a novel, even the normally-manageable 8:00 chime is too early.

Nevertheless, I roll off my bed and, drowsily turning the alarm off, get up and stretch.

Well, time to start the new day. Reaping day, as the case may be.

I'd really rather not dress up. Dressing up is something the Capitol wants us to do to make the Games seem like something to celebrate—which they're clearly not. Although District 4 seems to want to treat them as such, I would prefer to just ignore them.

Of course, the Capitol forces us not to ignore them. We have certain required viewing times—some that interfere with the school day, which I highly disapprove of—and are obligated to attend the Victory Tour every year. And the reaping, but that's obvious.

Speaking of which, I should be getting ready right now.

After a quick jaunt through the shower, I'm toweling off and running a brush through my mid-back-length, auburn hair. I go ahead and tie it into its usual pair of ponytails before venturing off to poke around my closet.

We're not the richest family in the district, so I don't have many dresses. It's fine, since I don't really do anything worthy of "party clothes". I've always been more of a bookworm than a social butterfly.

After a millisecond of debating, I choose the light grey, slightly frilly dress and pull it on over my head. I look myself over briefly in the mirror I've used for all of my life before starting off for the living room. Mom, Dad, and Axym are already gussied up, even though none of them is up for the reaping.

"Ah, sorry," I start, tugging at the edge of my dress. "Did I keep you waiting?"

"No," big brother Axym responds, "we just felt like standing around in here and staring at your door."

"Aw, shut it," I respond, rolling my eyes and wishing I had a pillow on hand to chuck at his mockingly-grinning face.

Not that I'm not used to this sort of thing. Axym loves me as much as any other older sibling, but he just loves to pick on me. Although I guess all brothers have to be annoying somehow. That's just his brand of it, I guess.

"So, you _are _ready to leave, right, dear?" Mom starts with a smile.

"Oh—yeah. Let's get going."

* * *

I quickly tell the attendant my name, and he crosses my name from the already-mostly-marked-out list. Squirming between the few gaps in the crowd, I sound a string of apologies for stepping on feet, until I finally get to the fifteens section.

I crane my neck, looking about the crowd. I can't make out any of my friends' faces, and there's not much room to go exploring. So I give up. There's not much time before the reaping, anyway, and we're not really supposed to chat while the Treaty of Treason is being read. What would our conversation be, anyway? Eugenia sharing her latest math joke—at which only she and I would laugh—Lexiny commenting on the next big sports event at school and how well she and I are going to do, and Palor jumping in the conversation to add his own commentary about how wonderful at athletics Lexiny and I are but how easily he'd kick our butts if he weren't busy leading the cheering in the bleachers. Nothing much important. It could wait.

Soon enough, the mayor has stepped up and begins to read off the treaty. She talks unnaturally rapidly, so it's over a lot quicker than in a lot of the other districts. The escort shuffles over to the center stage.

I don't think our escort had his coffee this morning. While he's not always as perky as some other Capitolites—and a lot less oddly decorated—he's definitely not mistakable for a beaten-down district person. Even from Four. While we're one of the best-off—we had a huge winning streak in the Games near its origin, and several Capitol fads involve seafood—we're still district citizens. We still have to work hard—"hard" being a severe understatement for a lot of us—and not get very rich from it.

And then there are the Careers. They work just as hard. For all the wrong reasons, though. To make themselves the perfect pawns for the Capitol's little "Games".

I can't understand why they'd call it that. It's not amusing. Anyone with an ounce of humanity knows the death of children is not amusing. The "entertainment" of it is obviously a cover. Everyone knows it's just to keep us under control. But for them to go to such lengths… They must really like us if they're willing to do this every year to keep us around.

Oh, I know they don't really like us. They just want to take our goods. And that they do. Food, textiles, luxury items, children. They take it all.

No wonder they call this the reaping.

The escort dunks his hand lazily into the female tributes' bowl and picks a slip. Like he's taking attendance, he calls, "Embreli Lueaz."

Upon registering this, I start to pick my way toward the stage carefully. To my surprise, I step up onto the platform before anyone volunteers. And even as I stand here, no Careers raise their hands.

…What's going on? We have tons of Careers here. Odds are impossibly small that something happen to all of them.

But… How many were female? I don't pay attention to the Careers, so I don't really know… But we're not a district of idiots. We wouldn't just train a tiny handful of Careers of one gender and plenty of the other.

But somehow no one's volunteering. Somehow something _did _happen. Somehow, against impossible-to-defeat odds, the Careers are down, and against _another_ sliver of a chance, my name was plucked from that ball.

But no matter how low the odds were… They weren't low enough.

And I'm going to the Hunger Games because of it.

* * *

(Typhon Undine, Male, District 4)

The door behind me rattles as someone pounds it from the other side. "Are you finished _yet_?"

I face the door although I know I can't see the speaker. "One more minute!" I call, furiously rubbing the last of the moisture from my chin-length, sandy hair with a towel.

"It's reaping day," my brother reminds me impatiently.

"Why do you think I'm taking so long?" I retort, a bit amused by my own joke.

"O-_kay_," Tide grumbles back, irritation in his voice to the point of sarcasm.

Shaking my head, I wrap the towel around over my hips—it looks odd, since the white cloth sharply contrasts my bronze skin—grab my clothes, and unlock the door.

"You can have it," I announce, opening the door and watching some of the steam float out of the room.

"_Fi-_nally," Tide responds exasperatedly, although he can't keep the corners of his mouth from creeping upward.

"Yeah, yeah, get in there, drama queen," I say, stepping out and wishing Mom weren't around so I could whip off my towel and smack him with it.

But she's around here somewhere, so I opt not to, instead going back to my room to get dressed.

I throw the towel on my unmade bed and slap on some clothes. I have nice pants long enough to suit my early growth spurt, but the matching jacket's sleeves don't quite get to my wrists.

No big deal. I'm sure all the ladies _want _me to show a little more skin.

The notion crawls further into my head, and I consider going to the reaping topless, but I'm pretty sure I'd get in trouble. Ah, well. I have a good enough personality to keep the girls around with or without my shirt on.

My pale green eyes stare back at me as I look myself over in the mirror one last time. I bare my slightly crooked—_slightly_, mind you—teeth to make sure I didn't miss anything before stretching my lips back over them. Seeing a leftover spot of moisture on the left side of my face—just below the crescent-shaped birthmark by my eye—I wipe the water away.

After one more look-over, I decide I'm fit to be seen and leave my room.

"Typhon!" calls Mom, noticing me already gussied up while she still has wet hair. "Are you leaving early?"

I drum my fingers on the kitchen counter for a minute. "Yeah, I think I'll catch up with my friends."

"Okay!" she hums, never one to find something wrong with anything I do. She steps to the side, and after a spur-of-the-moment hug, I make my way to the door.

I hesitate for a second once I get there, wondering if I should say goodbye to Dad first.

Oh, for all I know, he's still asleep.

"Hey! Mom!" I say, opening the door so she knows I'm still about to leave. "Say bye to Dad for me, will you?"

"Sure, hon."

I nod at her with a smile and leave.

* * *

I wade through the shorter people of the Fifteens' section like deep water before I finally track down my partner in crime.

"Yo! Anemone!" I shout, putting a hand in the air to help him locate me, as if my height isn't enough.

The brunette pauses, flicking his brown eyes around a few times before finally finding me.

"Typhon!" he acknowledges, navigating through the crowd a few paces to get to me.

"So, how's it going?" I start, lowering my arm.

He grins. "Finally scored one with Maris!" he responds, dropping his voice in ecstasy.

I raise my eyebrows. "Maris, huh?"

Anemone fist-jabs the air in excitement. "Date's tomorrow night!"

"Nice," I respond, ignoring the stage as the reaping starts up.

"You get ahold of anyone lately?" Anemone continues, wanting another of his _rare _"I-have-more-girls-after-me-than-Typhon" moments.

"_I _don't like to rush into things so much," I answer smoothly. "There are enough ladies after me to get a girl anytime I want—but you already knew that."

Anemone playfully pushes me to the side. "Pfft, you're a sore loser, Typhon, you know that?"

"I didn't lose anything," I insist, pushing him right back.

The escort calls out a name. I don't really notice it.

But I notice the silence without a Career volunteer.

Anemone stares in horror at the stage.

"Hey—you okay?" I ask quietly, nudging him in the side.

"It… _wasn't _ a rumor?" he whispers.

"What? What wasn't a rumor?" I start, feeling my heart rate pick up.

"I heard that dam overflow, near our house… It wasn't the only one," he says, voice speeding up. "People were saying there was a flood of the training facility, but it was kept a secret so the citizens wouldn't panic… I didn't think it was true!" he finishes, half-choking. "We're—we're—we're actually up for reaping this year!" He tangles his fingers in his hair. "Oh, crap!"

"Hey—relax," I start, putting a hand on his back. "We still have good chances… I mean, they'll probably pick an eighteen, don't you think?"

"Typhon Undine!"

"What?"

Anemone stares at me bug-eyed for a few moments before I realize it wasn't him that said my name.

Skin starting to crawl, I look up on the stage.

"Typhon Undine?" the escort repeats.

Anemone makes a pained, strangled sound before I finally start off for the stage shaking.

* * *

I don't know how long my family just took with their final goodbyes, but it already seems short and fuzzy. Like it wasn't real. Like none of this is real. Because it can't be, it just can't…

"Typhon?"

I look over at the door, where a Peacekeeper is letting in a bronze-haired, grey-eyed girl my age.

"Scylla," I respond, not liking the hollow sound of my voice.

"Typhon," she repeats, like it's the only word she knows how to say. She scurries over next to me and throws her arms around me almost in tears.

I return her embrace like I would with any of my friends.

"You know I'm going to do my best out there," I start as her sniffles quiet a bit.

She nods.

"So don't worry too much," I mutter, looking down.

She nods again, and starts to say something but halts. Clearing her throat, she finally responds.

"Typhon, I-I know you can make it. But if, somehow, you don't, I…I… I want you to know…" She swallows. "We've been friends almost all our lives, and… But… Typhon, I… I…" She stops, closing her eyes and inhaling.

"You what?" I probe gently.

"I…" She takes another deep breath. "I think you're the best friend I ever had!' she finally blurts out, looking down almost disappointed afterward.

"You're the best friend I've ever had, too," I respond, hugging her close before the Peacekeeper motions at his watch.

"Time to go."

Scylla pulls away, wiping at her eyes. She looks at me, unsure, like she has something else to say but doesn't know how to say it, before turning around and hurrying for the door.

The Peacekeeper shuts the door behind her, and she's the last one that comes to see me.


	5. District Five Reaping

(Laurel Crumb, Female, District 5)

"Laurel? You awake yet?"

I flop over in my pale grey bed sheets and suppress a yawn.

"Kinda."

"Well, get awake," continues my twenty-year-old brother's voice. "Breakfast is going to be ready soon."

"Okay."

I tug my sheets away and flop my legs over the edge of the bed. My bare feet meet the floor—which is oddly cold this morning, considering it's carpet—and I stand, stretching.

I guess today's reaping day. Being fourteen, it's only my third year to be up for the drawing.

But... I'd still rather not think about that.

Instead, I start through my morning routine. Slipping off the oversized, white T-shirt I use for sleepwear, I start up the shower. Once I'm washed off, I wrap a towel around me—it's a little snug since the towel's so small and I'm not exactly skinny—and brush out my shoulder-length, coppery hair. I throw on some undergarments and pull my sleep-shirt back over my head. No point in spilling breakfast on my nice clothes.

I trot out to the kitchen, where Dad and my brother Cleon are already setting down plates. Mom isn't here yet; considering the noises coming from her room, she's probably changing Berenice's diaper.

"Morning, Laura!" calls Dad, placing the last of the napkins.

"Morning, Dad," I reply with a smile. He's the only one that calls me Laura. I guess it's just his private little nickname for me.

"What, I don't get a 'good morning', too?" Cleon says after a moment, feigning exaggerated despair.

"Of course you do!" I respond, in a moment of silliness charging him with a tackle-hug. "Good morning!"

Cleon throws an arm around me with a grin I rarely get to see.

It's not that he doesn't smile much—he smiles a _lot_. I just don't have the chance to see _him _often. He's been working since sixteen, and he's either one of the best or one of the most willing at his workplace, because he's always the first to get signed up for overtime.

That's one good thing about reaping day—everyone's off, so no one can take Cleon away from me.

"What's going on in _here_?" comes a new voice. I release my grip on Cleon so I can shuffle over and see Mom walking into the room. Berenice, like she's still not used to the world despite living in it for a year, stares around wide-eyed in her arms.

"Morning, Mom!" I call, trotting over. "Good morning, Berenice," I add in a baby voice, tickling my little sister's chin. She gurgles in response.

"Morning, Laurel," says Mom, shuffling Berenice in her arms a bit. With a look at me, she continues, "Not wearing braids today?"

I blink, taking a second to figure out her question before my hands flies subconsciously to my hair. "Oh, I am, but later. My hair's still damp."

"Ah?" Mom responds, setting the baby in her little seat by the table. "Did you sleep in a little today?"

"Guess so."

"No problem," Mom says, making sure Berenice is nice and comfortable. "You're always up and at it taking care of the house and this little one—" she tickles Berenice's stomach, making her giggle—"all the other days. You deserve a little more sleep."

I smile. "Thanks."

There's a moment of awkward silence in which I seat myself.

"Food's up!" Dad suddenly bellows, hurrying back to the table—I didn't notice him leave—with a full frying pan and plate in his hands. Looks like toast and jam with some bacon.

Dad dishes out the goods, Cleon pours us some milk, and soon enough the silence is gone. And then, _too _soon, it's time to get dressed for the reaping.

I fold my hair into its usual two braids quickly and throw on a pastel green dress. Putting on some flats—someone of my stature could really use high heels, but if I wore pumps, I'd probably trip and break my arm or something—I look over myself in the mirror. After confirming that I still have blue eyes, a lot of freckles, and no makeup, I join my family, and we leave.

* * *

The Justice Building is cold. That kinda surprises me, since the rest of the district is normally so warm.

What really confuses me, though, is how in the world I'm not crying right now.

I've been reaped. _Reaped_. Picked to die. I don't know who's been in control of my body, but it's not me. If _I_ were reaped, I would have cried, or screamed, or tried to run away.

But when they called "Laurel Crumb", none of that happened. I just... swallowed the rising dread and walked up to the stage. Somehow.

I just hear the door opening as a wave of warmer air enters the room. Following it is my family. First comes Dad, then Mom with Berenice in her arms, then Cleon. We have to really squeeze in to all fit on this little couch.

It seems a little silly at first to all crowd this thing when there are two perfectly good chairs a meter away, but... This is my final goodbye. This is the last time this entire family is going to be together.

A tear finally works its way down my cheek. As if they just didn't want to be the first, others soon follow.

We sit in silence for a good while, holding hands and patting shoulders, before I finally regain the ability to speak.

"I-I love you guys," I choke out.

"We love you, too, Laurel," responds Mom shakily, Dad and Cleon echoing. Mom strokes my hair for a little while, tucking a stray strand behind my ear, before finally breaking down and hugging me. My father and brother join, the two of them able to embrace with both arms since they're not holding the baby.

"I-I'll m-miss you guys when I... I'm in the C-Capitol," I sob.

"We'll miss you, too, Laurel," Cleon replies quietly, squeezing my hand.

He doesn't say "while you're gone". He shouldn't. All of us know I'm not going to make it out of the arena.

"Time's up," the Peacekeeper deadpans.

"Just remember, Laura... We love you so much," Dad whispers, squeezing my shoulders tight before letting go.

In seconds, I'm forced to be in this cold room completely alone.

I cry harder.

* * *

(Darrell Jutters, Male, District 5)

My eyelids do a poor job of blocking morning sunlight. That, combined with the recently-cleaned window right by my bed, wakes me up. Shaking my dark brown hair out of my face, I step out of my bed with a yawn. Lovely morning. Sun is shining, birds are singing, breakfast is cooking, and—best of _all!_—it's the day of the reaping. Joy.

Eh. Not much I can do about that. Just show up and hope my… however many slips a 16-year-old has don't gravitate to the escort's hand. Yup.

Throwing a shirt on so Mom won't nag me about just wearing boxers to breakfast again, I walk across the room and open my door. The scent of sausage cooking slams into me immediately as I drowsily stumble over into the kitchen/dining area.

"Morning, Darrell!" Dad booms from the stove, scraping some meat off a pan with a spatula.

I nod in acknowledgement.

"Sleep well?" he continues, always the morning person, as he dishes out the sausage patties onto five plates.

"Well enough."

"Good!" Dad tosses the pan into the sink and starts to run a little water on it.

Only Dad could be excited about something as mundane as cooking for the whole family at this hour. He's always pretty energetic, which only gets annoying on the occasions he's not reading my few expressions. That doesn't usually happen unless one of my other brothers did something amazing and gained his ever-fluctuating favoritism and all his attention with it.

"Smells pretty good in here!"

I turn to see Claud, one of the aforementioned siblings, entering the room, one hand poised in the air as a wave of greeting. I give him a half-wave back.

Claud's one of those guys to whom you're just glad to be related. He wasn't head of the school football team or anything, but he's always been popular, anyway. He's just a good guy. I feel like I have to do something to earn him. And, maybe, if this doesn't sound like the dorkiest thing in the world, it's him I want to be proud of me.

"It'll _taste_ even better," Dad informs my 21-year-old brother, who heads to the refrigerator to pour us some morning beverages.

"Sure hope so." Claud finds the pitchers of orange juice and apple juice, and shuts the refrigerator door with his foot.

Suddenly wondering why I'm not doing anything to help, I jog over and open the cupboard housing our mismatched set of porcelain cups. I lay all five out in a line while Claud sets the pitchers down next to them.

"Thanks," he says, pouring orange juice in the first cup. "You want orange, too?"

"Yeah, thanks," I reply, taking the pitcher of apple juice and pouring it for the only two in our family that always drink it.

And—speak of the devil—here comes Mom, wandering in with her hands behind her head; she's still tying her hair up in a low bun.

"Morning, everyone," she greets, obviously suppressing a yawn.

"Good morning, Perdita," Dad responds, pausing in his freezer-bound quest for the microwavable hash browns to throw an arm around Mom and give her a peck on the cheek. Claud looks over at me with an exaggerated "ew" face, and I just shake my head at him to show my amusement.

Pulling away from Dad's embrace with a sly grin, Mom starts, "Trent not up yet?"

"Doesn't look like it," Dad replies, pulling the rock-hard bag of cheap shredded potatoes out of the freezer.

"Ah. Will you go wake him up," Mom pauses to look for someone to fetch him. I'm the first in her line of sight, but she knows not to send me. "Claud?" she finishes.

"Sure." My brother sets the pitcher down and starts for Trent's room. I finish what he started slowly enough I'm busy setting things back in the refrigerator by the time two sets of footsteps enter the room. I'm pushing a canister of water around a shelf for no reason other than an excuse as Mom and Dad greet Trent.

Trent and I… We haven't been friendly to each other since _that _reaping. Two years ago. I betrayed him by being too scared to volunteer when his cousin, his role model, maybe his favorite person in the world, was reaped. We don't interact with spite, but it's nothing like the relaxed brotherly relationship we had before then.

"…And will you shut that door if you're not getting anything?" Mom changes the subject to say. "You waste too much energy and I'll make _you _pay the bill."

Rolling my eyes at her words but inwardly grinning a bit at her humorously sassy tone, I shut the door and shuffle over to see if I can help Dad with the rest of breakfast.

While that last comment wasn't the case, Mom's pretty much the only person that can make me smile. Don't get me wrong—I'm not some brooding, scowling, dye-your-hair-black-and-write-poetry-about-blood kind of person. I'm just sort of… Neutral, I guess. Unaffected. Except Mom breaks through sometimes. She just loves us so unabashedly she can't help it.

I end up sitting down at an already-set table while Dad dashes back and forth getting all of our plates to us. He sits down and we eat. There's a lot of friendly conversation, as usual. And, as usual, I don't join in. I just relish it silently.

* * *

The reaping's about to get started now. I'm in the middle of my age section, next to no one in particular yet being squished from every side. Exhaling through mostly-closed lips, I put my hands in my suit pockets and scuff at the ground a bit. So what. Another reaping. I've been to several. Odds aren't high that I'll get picked. And if I do, well… Well, that would seriously suck.

I look around, over the other districtgoers heads, and successfully distract myself by watching a vividly blue bird flit across branches a few feet to the side of the stage. I've always liked watching animals. Just how they move around. There's always some sort of mesmerizing grace about them. Compared to lumbering humans, they're a lot more interesting.

I can't help turning back toward the stage once the escort has stepped up. The tributes are about to be picked.

I scuff the ground with my shoe a little harder.

First is the female, as usual. Lauren Crumb. She's an innocuous-looking thing, standing onstage with wide, confused eyes and a more understanding quivering. And then the male slip approaches the escort's hand.

It's okay. Won't be Trent, won't be me…

But the escort calls out my name.

I freeze, and my breath starts to quicken before I regain composure enough to stop it. Just focusing on my breathing, I stride carefully toward the stage, furrowing my eyebrows to keep the rest of my neutral expression intact. I get onstage without tripping and am forced to shake hands with Laurel. She won't look me in the eye. She's too busy trying to figure out what just happened to her. I'll tell you what happened. She got reaped. She got picked for the competition she can't stop and probably can't survive.

Just like me.


	6. District Six Reaping

Author's Note: Would you rather read the rest of the character introductions on the train rides or continue with reapings? I'll put up a poll, but your opinion is just as good in a review as in there. Not hinting at all...

* * *

(Sato Detrixen, Female, District 6)

"Daysi?"

I feel something poking my arm. With a confused snore, I roll over, eyes still closed.

"Daaaaaysi?"

Finally registering my name, I squint open my eyes and ask what's going on, although the words are too slurred and jumbled to be made out.

A set of youthful, bright green eyes blinks at me. "The reaping's in ten minutes."

"Buah...?" I squint at Leo for a minute before the words register. "Wai-wai-wai—_what_? Ten minutes?" I sit up and throw my purple sheets away from me with a little too much force. "Why... You waited this long?"

Innocently confused, Leo draws back as I scramble over to my closet to find some nice clothes.

"Aah, no time to shower..." I yawn just as I pick out my flowery yellow dress.

"Um... I'm sorry," starts Leo, finally realizing eighteen-year-old girls generally need more than ten minutes to get ready.

"Well, nothing we can do about it now, right?" I dismiss, grabbing the dress hanger in my teeth to free my hands to unzip the thing. "Uh, sorry if I sounded rude. G'morning," I finish, words muffled but hopefully hear-able.

"Morning," Leo echoes before slipping out of my room to let me change.

The dress goes on easily over my athletic figure, and although it takes me a minute to get my arms far enough behind my back, I zip it up quickly, too. Stumbling over the white sandals I'm trying to get on, I head to my bathroom and grab my hairbrush. I get the worst tangles out of my maroon hair but can't get my bangs to curl uniformly with the given time. I simultaneously set the brush back down and pick up the small, bright pink flower I always pin in my hair. Putting it a little ways above my left ear, I hurry through my room and into the hallway.

Leo's hovering by the door.

"How much time now?" I call, speeding over toward him.

"Not much." He opens the door and starts after me when I start running.

"So... So what happened to Sarabeth?" I start, thankful our house is close to the town square but wondering why my big sister wasn't around.

"She had an emergency call early this morning," begins Leo, already panting. "Said she probably wouldn't come back before the reaping and told me to wake you up."

"Oh, 'kay." We're silent for a moment. "Hey—what were you doing up so early in the morning?"

"Couldn't get to sleep."

"Aw, poor thing," I reply sincerely. "Scaring yourself again?"

Leo frowns a little. "Yeah... It was the night before the reaping, you know? I was worried about you."

I wish we weren't running so I could give him a hug. "Well, this is the last year you have to worry about that, right? And since Sarabeth's already 23, you don't have to worry about _any_ of us for four whole years!"

Suddenly realizing I not only didn't mention his 17-year-old District 3 blood sister but also just brought up that he's going to be up for reaping in a couple of years, I quickly change the topic. "So, are you meeting up with Sarabeth behind the audience ropes, or are you going to find your friends?"

"I'll meet up with her. Most of my friends would rather cling to their parents," he mumbles.

"All right, then," I say with a smile, trying to cheer the kid up a little. "If they want to be boring, let them!"

Leo coyly grins back at me, and I laugh.

"Come on. Let's pick up the pace a little."

* * *

At the last possible moment, Leo and I skid into the reaping dramatically, backflips included.

...Well. Maybe it's not that dramatic. But we _do _arrive in the nick of time, I swear. The mayor's already reading something, and we just catch the sign-in officials before they put up all of the books.

I kiss Leo on the forehead before he scurries off to find a place, and then I try to be as clandestine as possible in getting to the eighteens' section. Of course, there are an awful lot of feet between here and there, so it really doesn't work that well.

I'm just tiptoeing through the seventeens' section when the escort steps up. With a stifled exclamation of surprise, I start nudging a few more people out of the way—repeatedly apologising with a smile along the way—and I finally get to the rope separating the two sections when the escort calls from the girls' bowl.

"Sato Detrixen!"

I'm so confused from the rush of being late I don't quite register my legal name. But once I've tossed the rope over my head and ducked into the eighteens, I realize I've just been reaped.

Apologizing more as I work my way toward the stage, I hold my composure. I knew this could happen. I've known ever since my mother died, ever since I've started training for it.

But—! But poor Leo! Just when we were almost home-free... I'm sorry this had to happen... You'll have to worry about me for an awfully long time... And Sarabeth... Well, at least she knows I've trained for this. I—I guess it'll be really hard to come back when I've sworn never to kill a person. But I'm strong enough to survive. She knows that, and Leo should, too. That won't keep him from being afraid, but... It should help.

I come onstage and smile brightly to the cameras. I've just been reaped, but it won't ruin my day. I'm not in the arena yet, I get to see my friends and family one more time, and hey! The sun's shining so wonderfully it's impossible not to feel a little bit good.

So I'm all right. It may not last long, or it may last a long time!

I'll just have to wait and see.

* * *

(Gavin Ivreck, Male, District 6)

I'm starting to wish Mom didn't move out of District 12.

I know the lower the district number, the better your life tends to be, but it's not like she wasn't merchant-class, anyway. We could have been a perfectly good, _little_ family unit.

But no. She had to come over here. She had to meet Dad and stay. And she had to go with the good old District 6 tradition of cramming your whole extended family in one household.

Yeah. Whose great idea was that?

Don't get me wrong—I wouldn't trade my family for any other in the world. But I'd trade a _lot _of things if we could get a few more stupid bathrooms. I'll be lucky if I get to take a two-minute shower today. I hope the reaping officials will understand.

Well. If they work for the Games, they can't understand much. But whatever.

So, I'm just poking a fork at my long-gone hash browns and waiting for someone to get out. Not much else I can do. Not much else I want to do. Just drag my feet and try not to think too much about what I'm trying to get ready for.

I can't say how long it takes, but soon enough, Aunt Jahna is done with the shower. Her red hair done up in a towel, she smiles at me guiltily before hurrying off to her and Uncle Jeremiah's room.

With a nod so I don't look rude to her, I go past, shut the door, and get started.

It doesn't take me long to get sufficiently clean—I've lived in this house with the rest of them as long as I've been alive—but my blonde-and-brown hair is a little too long to dry all that quickly. Well, once again, hopefully the reaping officials won't care any more about my appearance than my life.

I toss the towel over the shower curtain, put my underpants on, and hurry back to my room. After throwing on a nice suit—"nice" as in not rough around the edges; it's a weird, off-black color that Mom says brings out the blue of my eyes—I put on my dark shoes and go back to the living room.

Dad, Grandma, Aunt Jahna, Uncle Jeremiah, and my cousin Kamen are already waiting for me. Mom's fussing with her hair in the middle and a bit upset it's so boringly straight today. Kamen finally asks if we're leaving any time soon, and, after a quick "people today are infinitely more rude than I was ever allowed to be" reprimand from Grandma, we get going.

* * *

Kaven and I have to wait in a too-long line to get signed in. I don't like to admit all this standing around not too far from the reaping stage makes me nervous, but it does. At least I can keep anyone else from telling. I've always been good with that.

Finally, Kaven is up, and, after explaining how his last name is spelt—"Ivreck"; how can people not figure that out?—he gives me a little wave of farewell before trotting off toward the fourteens section.

I manage to stop the official before he flips any pages, and I get checked in a lot more quickly. The second he checks me off, I start heading for the seventeens; this way, he doesn't get to tell me to do so in his smug, little "you have to do what I say" voice.

It's not on purpose, but I end up migrating toward Mason. He's one of my few friends—I don't tend to get along with people bent on ordering me around, and it turns out most people seem to be that way—and we've done some just-in-case training together. We're no District 2's, but if we get reaped, we'll have better odds than some stick-thin CPR expert.

The reaping gets started before we communicate anything further than hellos. The mayor goes on his spiel, which I've heard enough times to ignore. Then, the new escort, dressed in a strange, forest-green robe that twists awkwardly around her thin, pale yellow shoulders, introduces herself as Lucretia. With a timid smile, she bursts into nervous laughter for no reason, and then scurries over to the girls' bowl. Scrunching together her maroon-dyed eyebrows, she puzzles over the name for a moment before cautiously but loudly calling it out.

It's a minute before the reaped girl comes up, almost stumbling on the stairs but catching herself quickly. She looks out at the audience with a loopy smile.

Lucretia nods at her quickly before scuttling over to the other clear bowl and dipping her unpolished but long fingernails in. She doesn't have to analyze this name as long and calls it out a bit more confidently:

"Gavin Ivreck!"

I freeze.

She just… She just said… I just…

I just got reaped…

I'm snapped out of it by an elbow nudge to my side. Looking over in confusion, I see Mason urgently nodding me on. I realize every second I stand around is a second I look like a dazed idiot and get going.

I don't trip when I climb the stairs, but I notice with disdain that I'm trembling a little and make myself stop it.

I just got reaped. I just got reaped, I just—I just…

I bite my tongue with my molars to snap myself out of it. All right, I've been reaped, and that is not good for anyone. But I've trained, and it may not have resulted to too much, but, uh…

I keep chewing on my tongue discreetly to distract myself.

It's okay. Just don't think about it now. Just wait until you're away from the cameras, at least.

Because, right now, I need to look strong.

All the better that I am.


	7. District Seven Train Ride

Author's Note: The remainder of the introductions will take place on the train rides. Thanks to all who voted!

And thanks to reviewers, too. You're my inspiration, you really are. :)

* * *

(Fawn Cobb, Female, District 7)

I learned today that I like cake.

I've never had cake before. Bread, yes, pastry, on rare occasions, but never cake.

I guess you could call my family poor. We have a household of seven—my Dad and five brothers—but Darshan and Jex aren't old enough to work, and my oldest brother, Alexei, has to use most of his earnings on his wife and child. Dad's been unemployed for a while, probably because of his alcoholism, which oh-so-curiously is also the cause of a lot of our other problems.

Including the beatings. But that's another story.

Anyway, we're not well-off. We never go hungry, but I don't remember the last time we've had real meat on the table. Well, I'm a vegetarian, anyway, but that can't be fun for my brothers.

There's plenty of meat on the train, though. It's not worrisome since just the side dishes are enough to fill me up. The escort, Albinus, says he'll speak with the chefs right away and have a whole vegetarian menu set up for me by the next meal.

Can't complain about the service here. The escort, while having an awful nasal voice combined with the standard Capitol accent, is actually quite pleasant to be around. The chefs know their jobs beyond all belief. The Avoxes do things quickly, probably more from fear than duty.

I can't help double-checking each Avox I come across. I know the Capitol uses them everywhere, so chances are impossibly low, but I'd never forgive myself if Sarlene was on here and I didn't do everything possible to find her.

I haven't seen Sarlene for two years. I still don't know what she did to deserve it, but it wasn't unimportant enough for normal Peacekeeper punishment. The Capitol took her away, and there aren't many other things they do to plain old criminals other than ripping out their tongues and condemning them to servitude.

But I don't see her flash of white-blonde hair. I don't see those cheerful, purple eyes, nor the blue ones she would have without her contacts. The Avoxes here have dull, dark blonde hair, and their eyes range from green to grey like mine, but no blue. I don't think she's here, but I know I'll keep checking.

The Avoxes clean up our meal, and Albinus directs Besra and me to our rooms.

Besra seems nice. But between his awkwardness and my standoffish behavior, I doubt we'd ever be friends.

It's best that way. I definitely don't need any attachments in the arena. I don't need anyone to keep watch since I hardly ever get to sleep. I've never been that demanding of someone to talk to, and, while it's nice, I'd rather get lonely than be betrayed.

Albinus gets to my room first, ushers me in, and hurries my district partner over to his room.

The first thing I do once the door is closed behind me is check all of the room's corners. Despite the ornateness of most of the furnishings, the main room has only eight corners. They're all empty and without threat.

Honestly, I still don't know what I'm looking for when I scan every room I enter. All I know is I feel a lot more comfortable once I do.

It's pretty easy to get comfortable in this place. The bed's amazingly fluffy, and all the entertainment sources are infinitely adjustable so I don't have to twist my neck too much or anything.

I go ahead and turn on the television. The first channel shows reaping recaps, so I go ahead and watch. Same old same old from District 1. The girl isn't as bulky as a lot of Careers are, but she's confident enough no one volunteers for her. The boy is a volunteering Career. Like I said, same old same old.

District 2 is a little different. The girl has looks I'm honestly a little jealous of, but there's no way she's a Career. No one volunteers for her. There are no volunteers for the boy, either; he has some muscle on him, but it's obvious he's not a Career, either. That's weird… Wonder what happened…

District 3 has a couple of normal citizens, nothing special. And then District 4… is the same. A couple of normal, scared citizens. No Careers.

Is this… possible? No Careers from two Career districts? Has the Capitol clamped down on the rule-breaking? No, the Careers bring too good a game to be properly banned. Just… Wow…

Well, better chances for me, at least. I'm definitely grateful for that. I want to get home. If I win, our family finally gets a nice, big house, and maybe we can even figure out a way to get Dad away from us. If all else fails, I can probably sneak the boys back to our old house, just so they won't have to worry about beatings any more. I'd be the Victor. As long as I stay in the Victor's Village, there shouldn't be all that much suspicion.

And me staying wouldn't be a problem since Dad never beats me. He's not big on hitting girls, I guess; he never hit Mom—well, he didn't hit much of anyone when she was still around, but still.

I miss Mom. She had some mental problems, but she still made it clear she loved us. Loved her husband, all her family, and all her children, and she still had so much endearment left over she needed to birth another one.

But my little sister died before she was born. We all mourned, but Mom was completely mortified. That little spark of insanity she always had got out of control, and after an accelerating excited fit, her heart gave out, and she fell to the floor dead.

I was ten. I don't think it's taken all of the past five years or so for her children to cope with her death. Dad never got over it, of course; he wouldn't let himself, as he was too determined to drink it away. Needless to say, that hasn't worked.

Well, maybe I can get him a self-help counselor or something if I get home. I'm sure I'd have enough money.

I could do a lot for my family if I win. I won't be able to do anything but hurt them more if I lose. It's obvious what I want to do.

_If _I can do it… Well, that's the question.

* * *

(Besra Tamarisk, Male, District 7)

I wish my train room had some books. I guess I'm not that opposed to watching the television, but everything non-Games is toned down so much you'd have to have a baby's IQ to enjoy it.

I'm sort of used to toned-down stuff, though. Unless you have a connection with some black market people—which I don't—you're not going to get any sort of history textbook for adults. At least, not one that isn't dodgy and biased. But what would you expect? The Capitol would never admit there's some system out there that would work better than theirs. Luckily, I've gotten my hands on quite a few books, and the Capitol doesn't always get their stories straight. Leave out one supposed flaw and insert another. You can figure out a lot of it from that.

Well, don't take this to mean I'm a history freak. I love reading about it, but I won't approach you and start rattling out facts. Well, not if they're irrelevant, at least. If they're related, well, I may be a little guilty of listing some. _Sometimes_.

Some people aren't that fond of a few fun facts, though. One is Alder. He's, uh, just doesn't care much for me. I've overheard a few comments involving "stuck-up" and "know-it-all", but that's all. I don't have any real enemies. People tend to either like me or ignore me. It's not hard. I'm usually studying for school or hanging out with friends. Mostly Lebbeck, one of my richer buddies, and Cy, a girl who likes history as much as me.

You could probably call me friends with some of the guys at my day job, too, but we don't meet up much. I just work some basic logistics with shipping lumber. Kind of funny when everyone on my mom's side is an ornithologist and everyone on my dad's side is a lumberjack.

Well, I was going to be a lumberjack, too, but it's kind of hard to keep that aspiration when your first day of training involved your foot being crushed by a falling tree. Luckily for me, there were plenty of guys around to roll the log off me and get me to a medic.

It should probably go without saying that turned me off about the whole lumberjack thing, but it also got me interested in medicine. How a huge freaking tree could fall on me, and I could get out of it with the barest limp. That's the job I've really been studying; the whole clerk/tracker thing is just to keep money coming in. I was going to read up and practice, and someday, when I proved myself, move to District 6, the hub of medicine.

Well, that idea's looking even less possible now. Even if I do get out of this alive, the Capitol would parade me around so much and make me mentor so many tributes I would never be able to move. Maybe I could give my tributes medical advice or something for the arena?

I don't know. I'm almost hoping I don't get out. Don't get me wrong—I don't want to die; I _really _don't want to die—but after everything I'd have to do… I don't know. Victors tend to be pretty messed up. I don't know if that would be worth it.

But I'll have to try. I have friends and family to come back to. It's not like my wages carry the whole household, but I don't know how my family would respond psychologically. Dad would probably be less cheerful. Mom's harsher side may take over. Wren would be crushed at the loss of her brother and argument rival. Kest might start spending more time with The Birds than people. Grandma Parasol—hard as it is to imagine—might mellow a little. Uncle Carob would probably withdraw a little more, like he did when his wife died. My cousin Wattle would probably cry into a pillow a lot.

I don't like this vision of my family. I won't let this happen to them—or to me, for that matter—without a good fight. I'm not strong—especially by District 7 standards—and I haven't touched a weapon in my life since my curtailed lumberjack adventure when I was 12. Even if I sort of knew how to use it then, I've had four years to forget it all.

But I can at least combat nature. I've read enough health books to know a lot of medicinal plants, and I know a good handful of edible ones, too. I can find my way around a forest—lumberjack or not, I'm a 7, and it pretty much runs in my veins—and I know how to set up some simple animal traps. I've never skinned an animal, but there's always the time in the Training Center to learn. If I'm lucky, I might pick up some sort of basic fighting skill, too.

I won't be able to take down a Career; I know that. But if another tribute attacks me, I could at least fend them off. I… I don't think I'd be able to kill anyone, but… You know what, I just… don't feel like thinking about that right now.

I distract myself by looking around the room. The first thing that catches my eye is the mirror, which reflects back my light brown hair. I haven't gotten to cut it in a while. It's almost past its comfortable length at the nape of my neck. Maybe the stylists can take care of that.

Wonder what all the stylists will want to do to me. Probably some contacts. If not to make my dull green eyes a little more attractive, they may want to get rid of my glasses. The frames aren't obnoxiously thick, but people just don't seem to think glasses are good-looking. You know, all of those movies and things where they give the nerd a makeover, and she just looks _so _much better with contacts.

Eh, I don't know what the stylists will think. They probably don't care about my glasses as much as my natural skin tone, or absence of fake wings, or some other weird Capitol thing. They're not allowed to change that, though, right…? Yech. I hope not. The Capitol's probably more worried about changing my personality, anyway…

Unable to keep distracting myself, I turn on the television and ogle it as absentmindedly as I can.


	8. District Eight Train Ride

(Audrey Westfallin, Female, District 8)

My district partner really needs to get some table manners. I can understand him not knowing which fork is which, considering he's obviously not upper class. But he really needs to stop eating like a slob. I can't say I run on first impressions, but this guy's trying his hardest to leave a bad one.

Resigning once more to blocking him out, I return to my own meal. High-quality Capitol fare. I've had a few of these dishes before, but they weren't this good. The chefs are better, I suppose. Makes sense. Capitol chefs get to be rich and do this as a hobby. Most of District 8 isn't upper class, so we get a bunch of stragglers just in the cooking business to put food on their own tables. It's not something they like; it's just something they do.

I wish the world didn't work that way. People always being forced to do what they don't want to do. Like take a certain job you have no passion for, or maybe, I don't know, be compelled into a loveless marriage with a man who gives you a daughter only to leave you and never come back even when you're on your own premature deathbed.

Not that I know anyone who's gone through that…

Exhaling, I twist my mother's ring around my finger. I don't need to get worked up about this right now. Or ever. Just… No.

At least I shouldn't have to worry about following the same fate. While Eleanor—I refuse to call her "Grandma"—has always tried her hardest to hook me into an arranged marriage, too, this is my ticket out. If I don't live, well, that would royally suck, but I wouldn't have to worry about being the next generation of love-life strife. And if I come back, I get to do my own thing. Dearest Eleanor wouldn't have to worry about keeping money in the family, because a Victor gets enough for two.

And maybe I could date Garrett instead of having to just blush at him from the corner of my eye because he's not rich enough for Eleanor.

Well. All of that is later. If I want a later, I need to focus on the Games.

So. What am I going to do? I don't know any fighting techniques, but after all the working out Eleanor has made me do to keep a good figure, I could hold an ordinary tribute in combat. I'm eighteen and fairly tall on top of that, so I'll have an upper hand on the untrained. As for the Careers… I don't know. I haven't seen them yet, but I bet I can size them up once we get to the Training Center. I'll get some weaknesses on them there.

Supper finishes up, and our golden-tattooed escort tells us to go back to our rooms so the table can be picked up. My district partner feels the need to give a chipper "okay" in reply, while I just exit silently.

I lounge on my bed, appreciating its warmth. One thing District 8 never seemed to get right was temperature. Outdoors would be brutally hot in the middle of summer, but the winters were so long and freezing they made us wish it were summer again. Indoors was always sweltering no matter what the season.

But here, it's comfy. The bed's incredibly nice, too. While I definitely lived in one of the best houses in the district, my mattress still doesn't compare to a Capitol one.

I turn on the television. It has a much better picture than mine at home.

The reaping recaps are on. Looks like I just missed the Careers—the half-ebony, half-ivory escort I know works in District 5 dips his hand in a bowl of slips. He calls out a name, and Laurel Crumb tiptoes shakily up to the stage. Her district partner is an average-looking, gloomy-faced guy.

From 6 is a girl who looks way too cheerful—although she doesn't seem to be faking it, so I guess she's all right. Gavin Ivreck, her district partner, looks like some sort of "bad boy".

I don't like people like that. It's always an act on some level. I admit I've been one of the popular-girl conformists once, but that's fine, because I despise my old self as much as I despise any other poser. I just can't stand fake people. I've seen too much of them. While I can exist in the same room as my long-time friend Aurora, there's no positive energy between us. The rest of my old clique… I don't even want to think about them, let alone be around them.

By the time I'm done zoning out, the programme has cycled back around to District 5. Not really being entertained or getting much helpful info from this, I end up flipping channels. Nothing's on save for some documentary on District 13—but the narrator has such a strong accent, I can't even tell what she's saying.

I turn the television back off and flop over, rumpling the bed covers further.

I guess it's getting late. Wonder what sleep-clothes they have for me?

Crossing over to the dressing-room portion of my car, I flip through some of the drawers. Night-gowns are in the third drawer. None seem that appealing to me, but I soon come across a green gown.

I recognize this shade of green. Eleanor says it clashes with my maroon-brown eyes. She'd never let me wear it, even if it was just while I was asleep.

I don the thing in a heartbeat.

And there's absolutely nothing Miss Eleanor can do about it.

* * *

(Asher Barkley, Male, District 8)

So, I've been told to take a shower before dinner.

I don't think I'm going to finish in time.

I won't be late because I'm spending too much time enjoying it. Although it definitely is enjoyable. I haven't had a shower before—only baths—but it _is _really nice, especially once the temperature's nice and hot.

But that's not enough to delay me a whole bunch. If I'm seriously late, it'll be because I don't have very good choice when it comes to what buttons to push. Somehow I squirted a bright lavender foam all over my back, and in the process of trying to turn on the alternate sprayers on, end up accumulating other kinds of gunk. Green foam, blue foam, oily yellow shampoo, orange foam, maroon foam… The harder I try to find something to get them off, the more gunk I pile on.

In the end, I just have to squirm around a lot to get all the suds under the main stream of water. It works pretty well—the water pressure's almost high enough to hurt—but I end up smelling like a cross between a perfume store and a barbeque restaurant. I'm tempted to douse myself completely in one flavor of foam to erase some of the others, but I'm not sure it'd actually help. And I'm running a little late, anyway.

So, miraculously not setting off another round of suds-sprayers when I turn the water off, I get out of the box and grab a towel. With a step in front of the mirror area, I let the towel absorb some water. In the meantime, I doodle a series of increasingly zanier smiley-faces on the looking glass's condensation. One of the clear areas—a wobbly smiling mouth—reveals a clock behind me.

And, yes, I'm definitely going to be a little late.

Sheepishly rubbing my pale limbs dry and scrubbing some moisture out of my mess of black hair, I wrap myself back up before opening the door to the dressing-room section. No one's there, and no one's in my main room, either, so I toss the towel over the back of a chair and start shuffling through drawers. I end up going an orange polo shirt with some loose khaki pants and slip-on, off-white canvas shoes.

It's nicer stuff than I normally wear. I don't end up in rags all the time, but I definitely don't get to try on the Capitol clothes my dad makes at his factory.

District 8 kind of sucks like that. Always working to make things we'll never get to try ourselves. But on the other hand, the other districts never even get to hold that kind of handiwork. And it's not like much of anyone outside the Capitol gets to partake in his or her district specialty. So, we have it pretty good. I know I do. I'm fifteen, but I don't have to work much. Both of my parents put in full workdays, and between the three of us, we keep the family in good condition. My little sister Lisette won't have to work until I'm out of the house. Aunt Delia, who's lived with us since her husband's death, hasn't been able to work, but we can support her without strain.

And we're better off than a lot of other people in our district. We're definitely not in the exclusive upper class, but we're okay.

I guess we'd be even better if I win. The Victor's Village is over by the nice part of town, so I bet it's a great place to live. Then Lisette wouldn't have to work at all. And neither would my parents, or me. Sounds like a good deal.

But that's quite a bit later, and I kind of need to get going now.

I don't bother trying to run a brush through my still-damp hair; I just head out the door and start down the clunking corridor. My room is close to the dining room, so I get to the table pretty quickly. The escort isn't all that pleased with my lateness, and neither is my district partner. But it looks like they're only on the first course, and our mentor doesn't seem to mind, so we should be all right.

I sit down, and one of the waitresses silently lays a napkin over my lap. Before I can thank the first one, another gives me the appetizer, so I stay awkwardly silent and start eating.

"So, how do you two like _this _wig?"

I look up from my collection of blue-drizzled leaves as the escort adjusts her hairpiece. It's a wild, swirling mass of brown with thin, blue streaks zig-zagging down it. It looks kind of like a tornado-dog hybrid. With lightning.

Since my district partner isn't quick to reply, I get there first.

"It fits you." I start laughing, but the escort doesn't seem to understand why it's funny. "Y'know, fit. Like… Because it has to fit on your head and everything…"

The escort stares at me for another moment before laughing weakly.

"See? See?" I respond, still laughing a little. "I'm so funny you almost forgot to laugh!"

My district partner rolls her eyes, and the escort nods with a twitchy smile, still laughing feebly. She doesn't have anything else to add before the waitresses bring out the next course.

Man, is the food here good. I know it all won't last, but I can't help but love this place. The escort is fake but nice, and the mentor's a little too withdrawn to engage in the conversation—I try to get her to join, but she just nods politely at my attempt and turns back to her food. My district partner doesn't seem to like me all that much, but I don't have to spend that much time with her, anyway.

The train is just a great place to be. I wish I could just stay here…

Well, I bet most of the tributes think that. Who wouldn't?

But, you know, I'll take what I can get. No need to wish away instead of enjoying what I have right in front of me. How nasty would life be, going around like that?

Well, I'll never know. And I'm perfectly happy with that.


	9. District Nine Train Ride

(Samantha Ying, Female, District 9)

"Do you have any candy?"

The escort pauses in eating his cherries jubilee to look over at me. "Well, we don't have any in the _dining _room. But if you really need to order some, you can go to your room and—"

"Thanks!" I say, getting out of my seat and sweeping a few crumbs off my clothes before hurrying to my room.

This isn't the first time I've ordered candy from here today. I eat a lot of it. Most other fourteen-year-old girls think all the sugar would make them gain weight, so people tend to think I don't care about my weight or I'm just weird. Well, I might be a little weird, but that's beside the point. Uh, what was the point…?

Oh. Well, I'm not fat. I'm actually really skinny since I don't eat much "real" food. Well, not skinny skinny, like, you can't see my ribs or anything, but I don't have any extra fat hanging around or anything. Which is good, because I'm one of those, er, vertically-challenged people, and I'd really hate to look short and stumpy.

I get a few lollipops from my handy-dandy room waiter and click on the TV. The first channel shows reapings _again_—I think everyone's figured out who the real competitors are by now. Well, as much as you can get from the reapings. But yeah. I guess they don't have anything else to show about us, though, so I'll forgive them.

I channel surf until I find some sort of drama reality show thing. Everyone has a squeaky Capitol accent, so I end up laughing pretty much through the whole thing.

I just keep the TV on for a while. I'm about to get on a sugar high, and it's not like I ever get much sleep, anyway, so I'd rather keep myself entertained than lay around and pretend I'll be able to fall asleep before five in the morning.

So I just keep watching this ridiculous stuff and ordering a few more pieces of candy until someone knocks on my door. I'm kinda confused because it's about midnight now, but I go over and open up, anyway.

I have to crane my neck a little to see the visitor's green eyes and straight, short brown hair. I wonder if his hair color's more like root beer colored or chocolate colored before I remember he probably needs me for something.

"Uh, what's up?" I start, wishing either I wasn't so short or my district partner wasn't so tall so I wouldn't have to keep hurting my neck.

"Will you please turn off your television? It's keeping me awake."

"Oh, right!" I glance over at the TV. "Uh, sorry."

"No big deal. Just… try not to keep that up when we get to the Training Center."

"Got it."

He nods at me one last time before going off to his room.

Wishing he could have at least waited for a commercial break, I click off the television and look around the room for a minute. There's not much interesting that doesn't make noise or wouldn't make me make noise. With a frown, I decide to go ahead and paw through the sleep clothes. I end up finding a really nice greenish gown thing that almost looks exactly like Alpha's reaping dress.

It's kind of funny, because Alpha doesn't seem like the kind of girl you'd get to wear a dress. She's, like, the school troublemaker, but we're really good friends. I bet she has a bunch of friends at the orphanage, too, since she's been there all her life. That's why she doesn't have a real name, just "Alpha", which is something for "beginning", or something. I'm sure I've heard it somewhere.

But, yeah, we hang out a lot at school. Add Mike, and we make a pretty awesome trio. He gets a lot pushier than Alpha, but he likes writing stories and stuff like me, and he's still a good person and a good friend, so it all evens out. I mean, nobody's perfect, right? Mmm-yeah.

I toss the gown back—I don't like wearing any kind of dresses, so I'm glad reaping only came once a year—and toss the clothes over my shoulder until I find a nice baby blue cotton-ish two-piece. I put it on and investigate my bed.

Looks like the first step of getting in is getting rid of the fifty million throw pillows. Since I'm definitely still not sleepy, I just sort of fling them at the wall one by one. They're really light, so it's not like it's noisy or anything.

Then I have to go through a bunch of covers and things. It's almost annoying, since I'm used to having, like, one sheet to get under. It's not like we were poor or anything, but we didn't need this much junk, especially when Dad's the only one really working. I seriously can't go for long without candy, so I only fix up some test tubes or whatever for a few hours after school. And there's no one else alive in the family, so, duh, not getting any money there. But we're actually still kind of on the richer side; we just don't want to spend money on weird unnecessary junk like fifty bedspreads. So yeah.

Eventually I find where I'm supposed to lay down, and then I fwump onto the bed.

So, guess that's it for today. I'll just keep rambling with stuff until I fall asleep. No place to do any training or anything on the train. Actually, I don't think they let me train at night at the Training Center, do they? Well, that's okay. I've done training back home. A lot of training. But not, like, obsessive training. I'm not really muscular or anything; I just know how to survive and kill people.

Not that I like the idea of killing people. The Hunger Games are really… dumb. Cruel and senseless. But if I'm going to be in them, I'm going to win. Dad already lost Mom, and I'm going to come home to him. I'll have to kill a few people in the process, but it happens. I promised him I'd come back, with money to help him with his experiments, and so we could spend more time together. You might think it's silly, but I don't break promises. Not to the people I love. Ever.

And there's no way I'm breaking this one.

* * *

(Gale Blayley, Male, District 9)

It's nice and quiet now, but I still can't quite nod off. There's just too much to think about. It really irks me since I'm a laid-back person. I don't like worrying, whether it's by me or someone next to me. But it's hard not to worry when you've been reaped.

At least I know I have a good shot at this. I have strength from years of hunting—man, am I glad I was born in the small hunting sector of 9—and I'm eighteen, which should put me over any of the other strong but younger ones. I should be able to survive and get sponsors.

Probably not by looks, though. I'm not really bad-looking, and people say I actually have a great smile, but let's just say I haven't had girls chasing after me.

They don't avoid me or anything. In fact, two of my best friends are girls. Mikayla and Daffy. Heh, they don't get along well just because they're opposites. Mikayla's a laid-back musician like me, and Daffy's just been my friend forever even though she gets really fussy about things. It's pretty much my job to keep them from fighting.

Well, Julian and James help out, too. Julian's a friend at school, and James is a friend from work. They're both pretty popular in their own right, and I hang out with a lot of their friends if they're around.

Yup, home was pretty fun. I'd better get back. I'm… not sure exactly how, when it involves having to kill people, but… Maybe I'll luck out? Just get everyone else to kill each other?

…Yeah, because that's not exactly what the Capitol's doing.

With a sigh pushing through my closed lips, I roll onto my side.

Yeah. I don't know what's going to happen in there. I don't want to kill anyone, that's for sure. But I do know I can survive. So that's a good advantage, and, uh…

Eh, I'm getting myself worked up now. Let's think on something else…

I wonder how Natalia's doing. Poor girl was crying up a storm in the final goodbye room. As if the stress of being up for reaping for the first time wasn't enough. She's already a hunter, and she's pretty tough, but when it comes to our family, it doesn't take much to get her really upset. Her big brother being sent to the Hunger Games, well, that's outright overkill.

But she should be all right. Dad's still there to comfort her. He'll keep alongside her at work—as much as hunters can—and make sure she doesn't take a turn for the worse. And in the worst-case scenario… If I don't come back, he'll know how to make things better. He's already helped me and himself through Mom's death.

Man, I just can't think of anything relaxing.

I flop over again, further twisting the sheets.

I wish I had my guitar. It's hard for me to get seriously worked up, but even when that does happen, music always makes it better. That probably sounds corny, but it's true. There's just something about the sound of it, something about strumming the strings and hearing what I create, it's just… cool. For lack of a better word.

Of course, it's not like I could take my guitar for my token. Poor old thing is already half-broken; it wouldn't last a minute in the arena. I wish I could have brought it anyway. I could sure use it now.

…Funny how I make the other tribute turn off the noise, when I only want to make it myself.

Hmm… Do they have any, just, music in here? I'm sure there must be something, but I can't figure out all of the buttons and switches in this place. And the girl next door would probably be horribly confused at me turning on noise after telling her to turn it off, so… Yeah, no luck there.

So… Hmph. Why can't I just fall asleep already?

I put my hands behind my head and kick my legs out.

On another note, the bed's nice. I'm used to my feet hanging off the end of my mattress, but there's practically another meter beyond my toes on this thing. It's comfortably soft, and so's the pillow. Unbelievable how I'm not already dozing.

Of course, my mattress at home isn't as nice, and I fall asleep on it easily enough. I'm a pretty light sleeper, but I don't normally have a bunch of worried thoughts running around and making sure I can't keep my eyes shut. Like I said, I'm laid-back, I like it that way, and I like other people to be that way. This stuff just doesn't suit me.

Of course, it'll get worse once the Games actually start. Then I get to stop worrying about being picked that people will try to kill me and start worrying that people are actually going to be trying to kill me every second I'm there. Fun stuff. Real fun stuff.

I hope lack of sleep is going to be the worst I get out of that. I can't say I'm stressed out now, but who knows how bad it'll get in the arena? Things don't really get to me unless they're serious, so I've never really been stressed, save for Mom's death. But this is something completely different, you know? I'm not sure how I'm going to react.

I… I guess I'll just hope I don't start to lose it or anything. Not much else to do. Just keep alive and see what happens.


	10. District Ten Train Ride

(Chervil Saducee, Female, District 10)

I'm still curled up around one of the bed's purple pillows when the escort knocks and tells me to get ready for dinner. I slowly turn to glance at the clock without relinquishing the big square of fluff in my arms. It's 5:40 P.M. I don't think we're eating until 6:30.

I keep staring at the numbers until the zero clicks into a one.

Am I supposed to take a bath first? She gave me an awful lot of time just to change into cleaner clothes…

I look down at my faded red reaping dress. It has some dust in random places, as well as clumps of grass where the hem tore out.

This was the first time I've had to wear it without being safely in the audience. I was kind of scared being up for reaping, but I didn't worry about it that much. I just talked to Opia the whole time. It was actually kind of fun for a while.

And then the escort picked my name, and I kind of fell apart…

I guess I'm kind of better now. I'm not crying anymore, at least.

I guess I should wash my face off, if nothing else. I bet I still look horrible. My eyes are already pretty big, but they have to be huge and puffy by now.

I wander into the huge bathroom area and splash some water on my face. I pat it back off with a soft towel and notice a clump of my strawberry-blonde hair falling to the side of my face. Taking my ponytail holder out of my hair, I pull everything back into its usual really short ponytail and tie it back up.

How much time do I have now? I check the clock and figure out I've only spent five minutes.

Well… I'm really not very dirty, and I've never taken a shower before. But I didn't see a bathtub anywhere, so…

I look around the bathroom again, confirming it only has a shower.

I'll be fine without it, I think. I just took a bath this morning, anyway.

I just sort of wander around the room for a while. It is really nice in here. I wonder if everyone in the Capitol has bathrooms this nice? I know we don't have anything like this in District 10. Well, maybe at the mayor's house or in Victor's Village, but… Not at my place, and not at any of my friends' places where I've spent the night.

I've been to a lot of sleepovers. Opia's without a doubt my best friend, but I'm kind of friends with everyone, so if they're throwing some kind of birthday party, I'm always on the guest list. And we hardly had anything but sleepovers. It's not like we really have any places to go, like I've seen in some Capitol movies. We just have our houses. But our houses are a lot of fun. Some of my friends get to work on big farms, so people like me with meat-packing families get a chance to play with the chickens and things.

But it doesn't have to be at a ranch. I have a bunch of sleepovers at my house, and we don't live near any animals. We still have fun. At my last birthday party, we had so many people we just decided to all grab blankets and sleep on the grass outside, and look up at the stars and things…

But… I guess that's the last birthday party I'll ever have… I'm not going to make it out of here. I don't have any advantages. Maybe some people will root for me because I'm twelve, but that's not going to get me far. I'm not a fighter. I just like making friends. I don't want to hurt anybody…

And I won't. I just have to die. That's the only problem…

I realize I've started crying again when there's another knock at the door.

Is it suppertime already? It's only been a few minutes!

I quickly check a clock, and there's still plenty of time before supper.

"Wh-hat is it?" I call back weakly, unable to keep the shuddering from crying out of my tone.

"You all right in there?" comes a male voice. I don't recognize it, but it's not the escort.

I'm not quite sure how to respond, so all I get out is a, "Uh-um, yeah?"

"Mind if I come in?"

I immediately glance down to make sure I still have clothes on, as if I had undressed for the shower without noticing, before padding quietly to the door and opening it.

The man on the other side takes a second to realize I've let him in, and then he smiles at me and steps into the room.

I know who it is now. He's the second-most recent Victor for our district, but he won his Games years before I was born. I've heard some scary things about him, though…

He takes a seat at the foot of my bed and motions for me to sit next to him. I comply, and he puts a muscle-heavy arm over my shoulders.

"So," he starts after a moment of nothing but my sniffling, "do you want to win?"

"Of c-course I do!" I stammer without thinking.

"Winning isn't as good a thing as it seems." He looks down at the plush carpet. "There's a good reason half of the Victors are drunkards and addicts." He looks up at the ceiling suddenly. "But you shouldn't really _want _to die instead of that; it's just…" Apparently not having thought this out very well beforehand, he exhales a sigh of frustration. "What I mean is, you shouldn't want to die, but you should know it's really not that bad an option. Does that… make any sense?" he finishes, looking back at me awkwardly.

"Yeah…" I look at my toes. "So… you know I'm going to die, right?"

"No! You could…" He trails off hopelessly. "There… There's always a way to win. People can lose when they don't want to, and people can win when they don't want to. You never really know, but…"

"But I probably will," I mumble. "I know."

He pulls me into a little comforting half-hug.

"I don't want you to die, either, okay?" he breathes, unable to keep looking me in the eye. "Try to survive, but… Don't let yourself win if it means having to kill the good in you."

I guess that's about all I can really do.

"Okay."

* * *

(Time Wescal, Male, District 10)

The shower here is nice. At home, the shower's so small I literally can't fit, so I haven't taken anything but baths in a long while. I fit just fine here, though. The water's warm, and—although it took me a few trials to get the hang of it—the buttons for soap and things are pretty easy to figure out.

Even though it's pleasant, I don't spend much time here. I'm a little… anxious about this reaped-for-the-Games bit. Not that I shouldn't be. Anyone who's not planning on slaughtering mindlessly should be concerned. I'm concerned. For my own life, for the others' lives, for my morality, for what could happen to my family if I die, not to mention what's inevitably going to happen to twenty-three families… It's all too much to stand. That's why I've done my best to ignore the Games year after year. Think about the injustice too much, and madness is sure to follow.

But there's not much escaping things now. I'm going to be right in the middle of it all. Next to the deaths of people I have to see as living, not just images on a screen. The thought is… I can't think of any word to describe it other than terrifying. How am I going to react? How about my dad? My three brothers? My mother, if she's watching from wherever spirits go?

I just know I have to keep my conscience. Keep my morals, and hopefully not lose my head. I know I could survive—I'm 18 with more than enough muscle for a cowboy of my age—but should I survive? What rules would I have to break to get of there alive? I won't know for sure until they're in front of me, but…

I guess I should get ready for dinner. It'll be any minute now.

Toweling the last drops of moisture from my auburn bangs—I don't feel up to toying with the higher-tech devices meant to dry me off better—I walk over to the drawers and start to look for something clean to wear. I find a decent pair of slacks easily enough, but it's harder to find a shirt. Everything is either a weird color, or it's too tight around my arms and barely goes past my navel. I eventually just put on the plain white shirt I brought to the reaping. It's a lot less trouble.

I head off to the dining cart, though the meal won't be served for five more minutes. I don't prefer to be fashionably late, and I don't have much of anything better to do, anyway.

The moment I pick out a seat, a waiter zips by to drape my napkin over my lap. He's back in the kitchen before I can say a word of thanks. But of course he's high-strung. If the Capitol already tore out _my_ tongue and forced me into servitude, I'd be terrified of what they'd do should I not work as well as they want.

I sit here quietly, staring up at the ceiling with my arms crossed, until footsteps come thumping into the room. It's one of our mentors. She looks out of it, though, so I don't think I'll be asking her any questions.

A few minutes later, the escort comes in. She greets us heartily, though she doesn't approve of my "_boh_-ring" shirt. I don't really acknowledge her presence, and the Victor doesn't seem to be aware of her presence. The escort just quiets down with a harrumph and lets a waiter set up her napkin.

More footsteps finally arrive—it's our other surviving Victor, walking in with my district partner by his side. She's been crying. I can't blame her. She's twelve. No one should have to go through the Games, but there's no way someone as small as her should… Poor girl…

The Victor sits down, and Chervil quickly takes the seat right next to him, though she looks up at me apologetically. I shrug and look away.

Now the Avoxes swarm, arms full of plates with bowls on top. They quickly surround the table, set their burdens down in front of each of us, and turn to leave with nimble choreography. Another few come back in to serve us drinks while we examine our first courses.

The bowl in front of me is filled with opaque, red-brown soup, with crumbles of something green sprinkled over the top in a ripple pattern. It smells delicious, and it doesn't disappoint. It's a little spicy, but too good not to finish.

The courses keep coming after that: near-frozen fruit pieces in a slightly sweet orange sauce, tiny skewers of red meat and slices of vegetables with distinct char marks, and a stew-like dish with plums. I manage to finish off the next course, a sizeable chunk of heavily-marinated steak with some vegetables, before I start to feel full. I suppose that's saying something—a guy can't be as big as I am without eating a, eh, fair amount—but the large meal is far from over. I manage to make my way through most of some sort of crust-and-meat dish before I start to wonder how the escort and our male Victor aren't slowing down in the least. I can't imagine how long it would take to get used to eating this much, especially when our escort certainly isn't on the heavy side. Knowing the Capitol, that's probably from surgery.

Finally we seem to have gotten to dessert. At this point, I really can't eat anymore, so I don't know what it tastes like. Probably as good as the rest of these. I imagine the cooks are Avoxes working for their lives, too.

What a place the Capitol must be. The quality of life is surely through the roof if they get even better than everything on this train, every day of their lives. It's obviously not enough, could never be enough, to justify the Hunger Games. I wonder if any of those Capitolites realize that. It can't be many of them.

They should figure it out eventually. But it won't be soon enough. It's too late for those 62 batches of children before me. And it's almost too late for me.


	11. District Eleven Train Ride

(Zeetra Creal, Female, District 11)

For all they put us through, at least the Capitol gives us nice food. And lots of it. It's hard to make myself eat all of this, but I need to put on as much weight as possible while I still can. I'll be starving in the arena, and my perfect figure has started to slip in the past two months, so that's not a worry. Oh, no. The only real worry is my baby.

Pregnant women shouldn't even be eligible for the Hunger Games. They wouldn't let an eleven-year-old get reaped, or a two-year-old, but they're fine killing children before they're even alive. They didn't reap an eighteen-year-old like they thought. They reaped my child. Right now, I'm just a vessel. I'm just here to make sure my child sees the light of day.

And I will do it. I'm not sure how. I don't want to kill anyone. I don't want to hurt anyone. But if anyone dares to threaten my baby…!

No one is going to get away with that. No one! No one is going to hurt my child. I will kill them. I am not afraid to kill them for the sake of my child. Kill them all! I have to get out alive because my baby has to get out alive. If a few people have to die for that, well, then…!

I can't believe my baby has to go through this. What has it done to deserve this? What has anyone done to deserve this? Why do we have to go through all this pain? My baby… My baby…

Starting to feel nauseous just from the mood swings, I shift as the waiters bring out the next course. I really don't feel like eating any more. I really don't. But I should at least try…

As much effort as I put into it, I only choke down a few bites of the sixth course, and I've given up altogether when dessert comes around. I don't like sweet things much, anyway.

Well, as of late, I tend to like them when they're soaked in buttery pickle juice. But that hardly counts.

I poke at the food with my fork, but I can't bring myself to down it. I'm already starting to have seconds thoughts about everything I've eaten. I guess it _is _a lot richer than what I'm used to…

I lean back in my chair with a deep sigh. I don't plan on moving for a while.

I wonder how Carlo is doing. He was devastated when I was reaped. He even tried to run up to the stage to save me. He was caught by Peacekeepers shortly, but he still tried to convince them out of it. It obviously didn't work.

This must be horrible for him. Not only does he have to watch his future child be reaped, he has to watch me, too. We haven't even gotten married yet. We would have earlier, but Dad's so overprotective… He doesn't want to lose me, either.

None of my family does. Trinca was so excited when I found out I was pregnant, but she can't be feeling any joy about that now that I have to fight and kill for this baby. Mom has to be horrified, too. She tried not to show it at the final goodbye for my sake, but… She was so happy when I told her I was going to be married. And that may never even happen now.

I could say I'm fighting for their sakes, too, but I won't. The fact is, I'm only doing this for my child. Every tribute has a family, every tribute has friends, and some of those people need the tributes back more than my family needs me. If I were just fighting for that, I wouldn't get out of there. I could never kill a person for my own sake. Never.

But I'm not fighting for little old me, and I'm not fighting for my parents or my sister, or even my fiancé. I'm fighting for my child. I could never kill for them, but… I would rip up the world for my baby.

I… still wish I didn't have to, but I do. My child has been reaped, and I'm going to protect it. That's just all there is to it.

The meal is finally over, and I start wandering towards my room.

All right, maybe it wasn't such a great idea to eat so much…

I pick up the pace a bit so I'm in my bathroom, just in case. I'm used to doing this sort of thing. Morning sickness is horrible. I don't usually throw up, but it's better to be safe than sorry, right? And I'd hate to throw up all over something someone else will have to clean.

I lean over the toilet for a while, but nothing quite comes up. I can't say it won't tomorrow, but my meal's staying down there for now.

I walk over to my bed. It's a little too tall to board comfortably, but I manage to roll on top of all the fluffy bedding. What a nice place to relax. I would love one of these at home. Or a smaller version so my baby could sleep on it once the child is ready to sleep somewhere other than my belly.

I wonder if my baby likes it now. Lots of food and comfort. But it's not going to last, is it? Poor little thing…

I'll get you out of that arena, I promise.

* * *

(Elias Malka, Male, District 11)

I quietly scrape my fork on my empty plate as some of the others finish their first course.

I like the food they have here. It's a lot better than I get at home. We hadn't been able to recover after our house burnt down.

I guess we brought it on ourselves. The Capitol's cruel, but they still do cruel things for a reason. I'm not sure why they set our house on fire, though. We weren't rebels or anything. At least I don't think we were…

I don't know. It was four years ago, so I've had some time to think it over. I know it was the Capitol, since I saw the Peacekeeper throw that fire in a glass through the kitchen window. I know I'm not a rebel. Mom and Dad are too cheerful to be rebels. So if someone was a rebel, it had to be Ryley.

I guess if they were after him, they got him. He was the only one of us to die. He got stuck under a collapsing bookshelf. I tried to tug him out, but I was only ten. I wasn't strong enough. Mom and Dad thought he had already made it out. They didn't see him when they pulled me away, and everyone was so hoarse from the smoke we couldn't say anything.

I miss Ryley so much. He was my role model. Maybe most kids idolize their big brothers, but I think I looked up to him a little more than that. Mom and Dad have always been working, so I never really got the chance to look up to them all that much. But Ryley was always looking after me. He was… He was _Ryley_. There aren't enough words to say how great he was.

But now he's gone. He won't be coming back. He won't be able to help me where I'm going. He won't be able to help me see it's time to stop ignoring the Games. He's gone. My guide is gone. So I'm just lost…

I stay silent as the waiters come around to give us the next course. I don't feel like eating, but I'm still hungry. I go ahead and eat, looking around.

Not much is going on. The escort is babbling about something, but her accent is too strong for me to make out anything but "this year".

The Capitol people are weird. Weird accents, weird clothes, weird hair, weird skin… And then they like the Hunger Games. I don't like the Hunger Games. I don't really _hate _them, but… They're so horrible. I just don't think about them. And I shouldn't change that now. I would get too freaked out or something, right? I don't like freaking out. I get angry, but I never take it out. It's just like a bunch of pressure building up, and it's beyond uncomfortable.

So I don't want to get to that. I'll just stay like I am. Nice and cool and quiet.

It's not hurting anyone, anyway. The escort's happy chatting with the Victor who's too old and deaf to hear her. Our younger two Victors are murmuring between themselves, and my district partner is silently alternating between eating and curling up with her hands around her stomach.

She's pregnant, isn't she? That's not right, to be like that and be in the…

Never mind.

I continue to poke at my food, although I decide not to finish this course. Like I said, I like the Capitol food. I want to see what else we get to have.

The courses keep coming, and even though I don't eat all of any of them, I'm stuffed before we get to the sixth course. I'm really just not that used to eating much. Ryley didn't eat that much, either, even though he was strong.

My parents like to tell me I'm a lot like Ryley. Same appetite, same bluish-green eyes, same dark brown hair. I even keep my hair shoulder-length like he did, even though it kind of makes my head feel heavy. I'm not as tan as him, since I only just started to work in the fields this year. I sunburn easily. Always have. I remember, once, I had burnt my toes because I was outside wearing sandals for too long. Ryley gave me a playful lecture before putting some aloe vera on me. Or, at least, he tried. I was too ticklish and kept pulling away. He finally laughed and made me do it myself.

I don't remember how young I was then. It doesn't matter. I was always leaning on Ryley. I tried to pay him back somehow, even though I knew he never saw me as a burden. I made him a necklace, just a piece of twine, strung with a copper R I bought with birthday money. He thought it was silly to give him a necklace, but not in a bad way. He didn't wear it all the time, though. That's the only reason I still have it. The only reason it's around my neck right now.

But there's no use thinking about that. But then again, there's not much use thinking of anything now. I don't want to freak myself out, and there's really nothing else to distract me, so…

So let's think about the food I can't eat any more of. It's very nice. The last bit I ate was some sort of meat-ish thing—I think it was seafood—that was lightly friend and put in a creamy and sort of spicy orange sauce. I know I have to be full to not eat all of that. The same goes for any of this, really. It's so good and different I can't imagine being able to eat like this every day. But I guess I'll get to do just that for a while, huh? That'll be cool.

So I'll just keep focusing on that until I can't anymore. And then…

I don't know. And I don't want to, either.


	12. District Twelve Train Ride

Author's Note: For those of you who haven't seen my profile, starting with the next chapter this will be a cowrite again! Obiwanlivesforever will be helping me out, so hopefully we can get out updates a bit quicker.

Enjoy, and review if you can!

* * *

(Thalia Hawkmoon, Female, District 12)

How is it possible to make food this good? I'm a decent cook myself—I kind of have to be since Joy and her husband can't cook to save their lives—but I really can't imagine coming up with something like this. Of course, I don't have access to most ingredients. Just some wild herbs and the rare condiment if I really feel like saving up for it. Meat-wise, all I get to use is game. Mostly what Xavier traps, since he's well-off enough he doesn't have to sell most of his catches in the black market.

Not that I'm marrying him for the money. He's honestly not that much richer than me, but, really, that's just never factored in to this. He's just been my friend forever—or at least since he saved me from drowning at our pond all those years ago—and he's become even closer than that. I just can't live without him, so, you know, that's usually when you marry a person.

If we get to be married now. I'm sure I could get out of the Games alive. I'm pretty strong, and I've done hunting, so I'll be able to survive. Something could always go wrong, but I can take it. Even if the Gamemakers just get bored with me and drop a tree on me or sic a mutt on me or send the Careers after me o-or get me with whatever awful poison they'll incorporate into the arena, well… I-I'll make it…

I mean, I have to make it. I have to get back to Xavier. I… I probably won't be able to, but—no, no, I'm going home. End of discussion.

I chomp on a piece of meat a little too hard before the subsequent ache starts to calm me down.

That's right. I'm going home. No one has to worry. Not Xavier, not my sister, not my brother-in-law. Nobody. Because I'll make it home for them. No worries at all.

I exhale, making myself cherish the flavor of the next bite I take.

See, Tally? Everything's fine.

Xavier's said that to me a lot. After he saved me from drowning, he committed himself to giving me swimming lessons, without me even asking. Of course, I didn't know how to swim, and I had just almost drowned. Flailing around in the water scared the crap out of me. My head went under when it wasn't supposed to my fair share of times, and every time I'd be convinced I couldn't possibly do this. But Xavier always made sure I didn't drown. He'd just pull me out to safety and, once I realized I was okay, say:

"See, Tally? Everything's fine."

And it was. I never got much worse than Swimmer's Ear or a few too many mouthfuls of water, and I can swim just fine now. And I have Xavier. Anything ending with him by my side is fine by me.

Kind of funny how my whole life can revolve around another person. After Dad died, leaving my sister and me alone, I didn't think I'd be able to open up to anyone. Mom had already up and abandoned us, and then Dad was gone, too. It just didn't seem logical to let myself love someone when everyone keeps getting wrenched away from me. I still trusted Joy—I had to, since she provided for me—but I never really made friends. I still haven't really made any friends.

Well, I guess Joy's husband Skylar should count. He's a great guy. He always took my side when nasty stuff and rumours broke out. I just sort of came to appreciate that, and, being in the same house with him, I think I've gotten close enough to count as his friend.

But that's still it. Just him and Xavier. And that's fine with me. The more people you're friends with, the more people can let you down. That's just how it works. And I don't want to be let down anymore. So I'll just stick with Joy, Xavier, and Skylar. They're all I need.

I don't think I'll be making any alliances. If I'm right next to someone I hardly know, I could never get to sleep knowing it's in their best interest to stab me or choke me or poison me or drown me o-or… W-well, do bad things when I'm not looking. And I'd rather, um, get some sleep in the arena, you know?

I probably won't be getting any tonight. There's just too much to think about. What's the arena going to be? And before that—how well are the interviews going to play out? Will I get sponsors? Will I get a decent score in my Gamemaker session? If I can't get sponsors, will I be able to get food however I have at home?

And how's it going to be at home? No one but my family—including Xavier, of course—would sponsor me there. And that's not much money. What is it going to be like for them? I can't imagine watching someone I know go through the Games.

Well, I have… How many times have I dreamt Xavier, or Xavier and I, would be reaped? And what follows… I-it's happened a lot. I woke up screaming every time. It's not… it's not a pleasant thought.

I-I'm at least glad I didn't get reaped along with Xavier. That would have been unimaginably horrible. But it's just me, so there's still a chance we can be together again. I just have to win. Somehow.

So, I guess I should figure out what I want to try at the Training Center. I'm already good with bow and arrow, but there usually aren't many of those in the arena. So I guess I'll work on my hand-to-hand. I've done some fake battling with Xavier, but I wasn't out to kill him. This place is serious. If I get caught in the bloodbath—well, if whoever catches me doesn't already have a weapon they'd kill me with in seconds, and if they're not way too strong, anyway…

Okay, okay, forget it. I'm working on my hand-to-hand. There. That's all I need to work with. Let's just… Let's just stop thinking about things, then. It's not doing me any good.

With an exhale and a bit of a struggle, I train my attention back on my meal.

* * *

(Jace Maytra, Male, District 12)

Things are going just great so far. The food was so rich it made me throw up, my district partner doesn't seem to want to acknowledge my existence, and my mentor has already pretty much given up on me. Just peachy.

I guess I wasn't expecting much better, though. I mean, I'm not used to decent food, even though I'm not quite poor enough for The Seam, so I probably should have known I couldn't take this fancy stuff. As for everyone ignoring me, well, that makes sense, too. I'm weak, I know. I look like a pile of bones, etc., etc. Why would they want to waste their time on me? I'm not going to have a shining victory.

Of course, if I don't win, I sort of die. I'd really like not to die. Dying is bad. And painful and scary. I don't want to die, I really don't.

But I guess I'm going to, since I don't have anything going for me and all.

…Am I really going to die? I can't imagine dying. Well, I guess I can. I have. The harder I try to ignore it, the more I end up thinking about it. All the crazy things and people they put in that arena… It's impossible to predict just how I'm going to go, but I bet it's going to be horrible.

With a mumbling whimper, I continue splashing water on the sides of the sink to wash off my vomit. There are Avoxes to do this, but they haven't shown up yet, and it's not like I have anything better to do, anyway. I could watch the reapings, but what's the point? Nobody's going to ally with me, and it's not going to do any good just to see how scary the Careers are this year.

So this is what my life turned into. From being an average student to scrubbing out my out vomit from a Capitol train sink. And this is a circus compared to the Games.

Why would anyone make innocent kids do this? Live in fear every year for half of their childhoods and live in poverty the rest of the time, if they're lucky enough to not get reaped. And then there are the ones like me, who have to realize everyone's going to be out to kill them in a matter of days, and everything they do is going to affect whether or not people will like them enough for them to eat or drink, and… I can't even name all of the horrors.

I just want out of here. I want to go back to my parents, to my sister… Annie must be terrified right now, if she's in her right mind. She's had these episodes of non-responsiveness ever since her boyfriend was reaped and killed. She cares for me just as much. It's going to be so bad for her when I die…

Oh, I really don't like those three words… "When I die"… Let's just… Let's just not do that, okay?

I focus back on the sink, but it's more or less clean now. With a sigh, I lean back and slump against the wall.

So now what? I guess I could watch some television or something… Just not the reapings. Not anything Hunger Games-related. I can't pretend it's not going to happen, but I can at least avoid thinking about it for a while.

I wander back to the main room and walk up to the television. I can't find the power button for the life of me. This _is _the television, right? I can't see the back of it since it's embedded in the wall, but the screen looks television-ish… But then again, there aren't any buttons.

I try tapping at the screen, but nothing happens.

Oh, well. There probably wasn't anything on, anyway.

Resigned, I walk over to the bed and flop down on it. The headboard has buttons. So does the side table. Half of the room is covered in them, just not the television. Pretty inconvenient.

I lie for a while, slowly sinking into the fluff of the comforters and things. The bed is nice. At least I'll get to sleep in comfort a few times before I have to sleep underground.

Ergh, I thought I said I wasn't going to think about that…

Not having anything I would want to think about, I roll over and off the bed. In the process, I end up kicking one of the buttons. The television turns on.

Pausing, I stare as a Capitol lady walks across the screen.

…I guess I found the power button.

But I soon realize the lady is an escort drawing names for the reapings. And if it took me this long to figure out the power button, there's no way I'm going to be able to change the channel.

With a sigh of resignation, I watch as the Elevens are called. The girl starts bawling immediately, clutching at her stomach, while the boy just sort of wanders around, looking distressed but confused. Then it's District Twelve.

Out of the Eighteens' section walks my district partner, keeping steady but unable to stifle the fear flashing in her eyes. Then I'm called. The camera stays on Thalia just long enough to see her relax a little before I'm on-screen.

…Yup. I'm not getting any sponsors.

At least I'm not crying. Not that that's any consolation when it doesn't look like I'm quite sure whether I'm trying to run away or hide amongst the other Fifteens. Yeah. People are going to think _that_ boy's going to win. Don't think so.

Feeling more depressed, I kick the power button again, and my frantic face disappears in a white, shrinking starburst.

I didn't get anything form that except what I've known the whole time.

I'm doomed.


	13. Realizations

Author's Note: And so the next phase of cowriting begins! Obiwanlivesforever wrote Clovis' and Embreli's parts. Thanks for reading, and please review if you can!

* * *

(Clovis Noken, Male, District 1)

_I'm the only Career in the Games this year._

The thought hasn't left my mind since the reaping recaps. Again and again, as if I'm still watching the television, I see the tributes from Two and Four ascend to the stage. Between their slight builds and the varying levels of shock on their faces, I doubt that any of them has ever been inside a Training Centre. I always knew my district partner was part of the small untrained percentage of the population, but ... I wasn't expecting every one of my potential allies to be.

And that's _bad. _Seriously bad. True, I've got my wits on my side. True, I can do some serious damage with a knife. But nothing I've learned from dad's "occupation" or six months in the Training Centre is going to get me through the Games without the help of a strong alliance. I was planning to be the sly career who finishes off a few weaklings but lets the others handle the tougher competition, only to stab them in the back when they're sleeping. I _wasn't _planning on being the only competent member of the pack.

A pack that it looks like I'll have to lead.

"Hands over your head!" giggles one of the Capitol freaks trying their best to annoy me as much as humanly possible. I grudgingly comply, then curse as she yanks out a chunk of armpit hair.

Irritation crawls over my skin. Just ... everything about these people—their chatter, their ultra-vivid skin, not to mention the fact that they've separated me from the only person I love for their own amusement—drives me to the breaking point. I know Alia would want me to stay calm and not screw up my chances, but I swear I'm this far away from snapping.

So ... better think about something else. Like the fact that I'll most likely be head of the "Careers" this year. That's another thing. Apart from Alia, I've never really gotten along with anyone. People just ... bug me too much. I'd much rather be alone. But I'm not stupid enough to think I can get through the entire Games on my own. My muscles have got nothing on those of, say, the boys from 9 and 10. There are donations to think about—if I'm in a group we can pool those—and as long as I'm part of the pack I get free access to the supplies at the Cornucopia. And that would all be great if I didn't have to be in charge of it all. Having to decide what's best for the group, keep everyone in line, lead them on hunts—it's just not me. It's not like tributes get to stay themselves in the Games anyways, but I don't have to be happy about it.

A bout of hysterics erupts from the prep team. It's the stylist, entering with some sort of sparkly golden cloth that I guess is supposed to be my costume. To tune out their squealing my mind shifts to an even more undesirable thought. Killing.

It's not like I haven't known that every dummy I've stabbed represented a human being, but since I never actually thought I'd have to go into the Games, it didn't mean much. While I'm not one of those love-and-peace-for-all types who thinks the Careers are monsters, I haven't exactly been taught to embrace slaughter my whole life either. Yet, because of a freak accident in the mines, it looks like I'm going to have to do just that.

The stylist drapes the outfit over my body. Looking in the mirror, I'm greeted by the scowl of a lean, dark-haired boy whose slight musculature is enhanced by the sleeveless tunic. The edges of the thing are wickedly jagged, as if they've been slashed with a blade. It doesn't take a genius to figure out how they're presenting me. I am the only Career in the field, and no one in the audience will be allowed to forget it.

It'll be all right. I just have to think of Alia. Focus on her face instead of the people I'm murdering. They're just obstacles in my way to her, after all. At least, that's what I'll have to tell myself if I ever want to see her again.

And I do. So I will.

* * *

(Darrell Jutters, Male, District 5)

I've learned three things so far in this dress-up session.

1. The Capitol is technologically advanced enough to have all kinds of crazy beauty aids.

2. The Capitol is not advanced enough to have a painless way to get rid of unwanted hair.

3. I have a lot of unwanted hair.

Then there's the whole figuring-out-the-torture-starts-now part, but it's the Capitol. I would kind of have to expect them to get the most entertainment of me as possible. And since they're a bunch of sadistic creeps, well, there you go.

I seem to be done with the worst part of the makeover. Just a few more minutes of the tropical-bird-like things circling me, and they leave to find the head stylist.

I end up wandering over to a window. The curtains are closed—thankfully, as I'm not exactly dressed right now—but I scoot them enough to the side to get a peek of the outdoors.

The outdoors isn't that different from the indoors here. More lights, more people, and a few more vehicles. It's certainly nothing like District 5. No ground in sight, no oil-drillers poking the clouds in the distance, and no wildlife. I guess the Capitolites must have chased them all off. Or the critters got sick of them and ran off themselves. Somehow I think that's more likely.

I hear the door open behind me and slide the curtains back shut.

The head stylist must be the one walking in with an outfit slung over her shoulder. She hangs the black-plastic-obscured costume on a rack at the side of the room and stops to look me over. I do the same for her.

She's really not bad-looking, for a Capitolite. Unlike the three that got me ready for her, she's not decked out in eye-burning colors or just-as-bright false wings. Her skin is actually a quite natural tan. She's covered in lacey, aqua tattoos, and her done-up hair is some shade of pinkish-purple, but that seems to be the extent of her self-modifying. If I had to choose a competent stylist from a Capitol crowd, I think I'd probably go with her.

"All right," she starts unnaturally, sounding like she's attempting to cover up her accent, "let's get started."

* * *

I'm not completely sure what this article of clothing is. I'm glad it covers me up, and it's comfortable enough. It's mildly dress-like and about as white as a human can stand to look at. Another section of it wraps around my upper arms and torso; this part is a very shiny black obviously meant to look like oil.

I end up in some equally shiny black sandals and some not-so-shiny—though I won't complain about that—makeup. The stylist checks me over a few more times before finally deciding I'm presentable.

"You're good to go." She pats my exposed shoulders and leads me to the door.

Well. Things are about to start, I guess. Here's hoping I don't ruin my chances. At least, the few I have in the first place.

I open the door myself and walk through.

* * *

(Embreli Lueaz, Female, District 4)

"There you go!" titters my stylist, withdrawing a neon pink hand as I find my footing atop the chariot. "Try to smile, and remember, no fidgeting!"

"Thanks," is all I can make myself say. Fortunately, she prances off before an awkward silence can settle in. Even if I wanted to shed my usual introverted demeanour, the woman who has casually dressed me up for slaughter is one of the last people in Panem I'd want to converse with.

_Easy, girl. _I release my fears through a long, slow, breath. Or attempt to, anyway. Standing in my place, about to begin the first phase of a contest that may spell my death, I'd expect anyone to have a high level of anxiety. And I'm no exception. But that doesn't mean I'm going to break. Whatever happens, I can't let this terror rule me. I've always had a good head on my shoulders. At least my brother says so.

_You've always had a good head on your shoulders, Embreli, _Axym last told me with a comforting squeeze of my shoulder. _You can come back. I believe in you. _The memory brings a pang of deep, desperate longing, but beneath that a further conviction not to let him down, despite the fact that I don't share his firm faith.

"Nervous?" comes a voice at my shoulder. Not expecting my district partner to make conversation – not because he's shy like me, oh no, but because common courtesy is one of the many things discouraged in the Games – I start slightly. Typhon grins at this and leans back against the chariot. I'm baffled as to how anyone can maintain such an aura of easy contentment.

"What makes you say that?" I ask, unable to come up with a more eloquent response.

"Well, for starters, you're fidgeting like crazy," he puts in unhelpfully, though the teasing in his voice is gentle, "and secondly, you've been picking at that sash since the second we got in here."

Not having noticed this, I drop my hands immediately. The iridescent turquoise ribbons, winding around me in a graceful imitation of water, are far beyond the level of decorum I'm used to. Meaning it would be impossible not to pick at them, even subconsciously. I try to ignore the uncomfortable way the costume clings to my body, but resistance proves futile and the reflective scales carpeting the skirt are an easy target. Oh, well. I can't stand still even in the best of times, and taking out my nervousness on my outfit is preferable to bottling it in only to break down in front of the entire Capitol.

"Have it your way," Typhon shrugs, before adding with a wink, "But I'd leave it. You look nice, and the rest of the view isn't half as attractive."

Unsure of whether to feel complimented or suspect flattery, I roll my eyes and look away. Honestly! We're in a competition of life and death and all he can think about is the ladies? Somewhere beneath my irritation I recognize that his immaturity is reminding me of my friend Palor's, and more to avoid the thought of how he used to joke about the reapings than anything, I let my gaze wander to the girls in the chariots next to us.

Typhon was right. I'm not one to judge by appearance, and I certainly wouldn't say anything to their faces, but unfortunately they're not winning any points in the beauty department. The dumpy, horror-struck girl behind us is draped in some sort of oil-soaked cloak, and while the one from 3 is more plain than unappealing, the boxy mechanical suit she's wearing definitely isn't.

Huh. Now that I think about it, I look just as absurd as everyone else in this mermaid getup. Makes me wonder if Typhon was joking when he complimented my costume. I can never tell, though, so revert to my usual assumption that everyone is thinking the worst of me.

My heart plummets as the chariot lurches forward. Typhon laughs and raises an eyebrow suggestively as I stumble against him, but I force all embarrassment from my mind. I won't be allying with him in the arena anyway. That's one thing I'm certain of – although I'm from 4, I'm not stooping so low as to join the Career pack. The Capitol has claimed control over my life against all odds, but they can't get at my mind. It may be the only weapon I have.

Although it most likely won't be enough.

* * *

(Sato Detrixen, Female, District 6)

This might be a little funner if I could keep my balance.

The horses pulling our chariot are _beautiful _shades of white-spotted brown, and their movements look so graceful, but the chariot's jerking around like a six-year-old about to get a flu shot. I'm already wearing crazy high heels—they're really cute, but I kind of can't walk/stand/generally exist in them—so the motion doesn't help. Luckily, I've managed to not fall so far.

I really like my outfit. The high heels are a plain, shiny white, but the rest of my clothing is covered in dried medicinal-type flowers. My stylist must have really done her research; only a few of these aren't used for actual medicine, not counting the ones where parts other than the flower are used. But I'm fine with the decorous ones, too. I love flowers. They're just so pretty!

And that's why my name is Daysi. Okay, it's not what they called at the reaping, but it's my name. Spelt like that, D-A-Y-S-I. I think it looks cuter that way than D-A-I-S-Y.

Oh, I guess everyone's going to know me as Sato, though, since that's what they said at the reaping. Well, I'll just have to correct that! I'll tell the tributes and Gamemakers at the Training Centre, and I'll tell the rest at my interview! I hope people don't get too confused. But oh well.

I keep wobbling around on my high heels as the chariot comes up to the City Circle. We're about to stop. Oh, boy. I'm going to fall for sure. Oh, boy. Here it comes!

Our horses glide to a stop, and as expected I stumble. My cooler-than-cucumber-salad districtmate of course doesn't do anything about it, so I end up hopping forward several times until I've almost overstepped the chariot. I manage to stop before I tumble over onto one of the horses.

Well… Hahaha. I guess nobody's going to mistake me for a gymnast now. But they probably aren't paying attention to me, anyway. The president's making his speech, and the screens around us are currently on District 9. The girl's sort of twirling around in boredom, while the guy is watching, slightly amused. The camera stays on them for a while; understandable, since the guy—what was his name, Gall? Something like that—is dressed fairly skimpily and wasn't too shabby to look at in the first place.

Then the screen switches to 10, where the two tributes are standing silently. Their cow costumes don't work so well for them.

I keep watching the screen as the president starts to wrap up his speech. I only get one glance at my pretty flower costume before the horses start up again. I fall on my butt this time.

Whoops!

I strike a pose to make it look like I planned that and grin all the way to the Training Centre.


	14. Gatherings

(Audrey Westfallin, Female, District 8)

Exhaling deeply, I roll my honey-blonde hair into a loose bun and allow the Capitol assistant to pin the number 8 to my tunic. Satisfied now that the stragglers have arrived—I wasn't one of them, of course, seeing as the last thing I want is to make a poor impression on the first day—the head trainer launches into an enthusiastic run-through of the various stations. I don't listen. Despite what these people may think, I am intelligent enough to read the signs above each stand. Moreover, the unbridled superficiality of his voice sends spiders over my skin. It seems wherever I go, fake people will pursue me.

Besides, I have more pressing matters with which to occupy my mind. My mentor's advice this morning was to try my hand at everything. "Since you haven't got any special skills, try to find one. Dabble in as much as you can, don't stay too long at one particular station, and most importantly, once you've developed a talent suitably, drop it. The worst thing you could do is let everyone else know where your strengths lie." Then she gave me a sad smile and was off.

Well. I wouldn't say I don't have _any _special skills, but in terms of keeping me alive, most of them are irrelevant. While I do slightly resent being told what to do—after bowing to Eleanor's every whim for so long, this newfound self-dependency is more invigorating than terrifying—I realize that I'd better do what she says if I want to return home. She did, after all.

The trainer finally finishes his spiel and the crowd disperses. Some stride off immediately; others mill hesitantly about. Thankful that I have already decided which station to start with so I don't look completely hopeless, I make my way purposefully towards the knife-throwing stand.

I figure that I might as well take advantage of my athletic build and master some sort of combat skill. That way, I gain a chance of surviving an encounter with the careers—some of whom, I might add, look as if they haven't been in training very long if at all. When I acknowledge that I haven't got the muscles to use a broadsword or axe and factor in my experience in the kitchen, my choice of weapon narrows down to one.

The only other tribute at this stand so far is the boy from 1. He's definitely been trained. Plunging a knife deep into the center of a straw dummy, he glances over his shoulder to shoot me a challenging glare. The assistant hurries over.

"Grip the handle like so, dear," he murmurs somewhat condescendingly, eyes flicking to my district number. "Aim for the heart, but don't fret when you don't hit it; I'm sure even nicking the target would be an achievement."

Stabbed by indignation, I allow a drop of venom into my civil tone. "I need no help."

Refusing to be intimidated, I assume a well-balanced stance, sweep my arm back, and let fly. The blade flashes away from my fingers, sailing through the air to meet the dummy's lower calf. Not too bad. It's not a killing blow, of course, but respectable all the same, and should certainly slow an opponent down. Furthermore, when the assistant bends down to investigate, he announces that it has sunken all the way through the leg.

The next fifteen minutes pass swiftly as I pepper the dummies with knife marks. None come close to any vital regions, but with each blade I let fly, the strain of every minute I've spent under Eleanor's regime seems flung from my heart. The Training Centre, the Career's animosity, the Games; all vanishes. Nothing exists but the sleek slivers of metal, directing six years' worth of repressed anger, stress and bitterness deep into the targets.

How ironic that here, in the clutches of tyranny, I should find freedom.

* * *

(Jendra Reeseburn, Male, District 2)

I'm about fifteen minutes into training at the hand-to-hand station when I realize Clovis is watching me. I go on against the trainer, anyway—I'm not much for starting conversations, let alone with trained killers—but I'm distracted enough to slip up more than I'd like. By the time another five minutes have elapsed, I'm ready to stop humiliating myself. I wanted to do some training here since I might not get my hands on a weapon, but forget it. I'm going to go swing around a good old quarrying-type pickaxe. It's not like I plan to kill anyone with one, but I can at least scare away some of these guys. Maybe even Clovis back there.

I start looking around for the pickaxe station and note Clovis has disappeared. Good. Maybe I don't have to chase him off just yet after all. And I'll be doing a lot better when I don't feel murderous eyes drilling into the back of my skull.

Though I have to take a snaking route to stay out of the way of flying axes and arrows, I track down the pickaxe station. The trainer, knowing I'm from 2 and apparently thinking I'm bulky enough to be a Career—I'm not—just hands me a weapon, and I get swinging.

Even though the only things I'm ripping open are dummies, it still haunts me a little bit. I'm supposed to be doing this to human beings in a few days. Or someone else might be doing this to me.

As I start to see myself, crumpled and bleeding, instead of the dummy I just skewered, I exhale and step back for a second.

Only now do I realize Clovis is back.

He's actually approaching me this time. If he's been impressed, his scowl doesn't show it.

"I'll make this quick," he says, glaring me down. "One word answer. You, Career pack, in or out?"

I open my mouth but don't say anything just yet. I hadn't thought about the Career pack. It's weird enough being thrown in here with so few real Careers, but to be one myself? I guess I am from 2, and I've done enough quarrying to look slightly threatening. But I am _not_ killing anyone. Isn't that sort of what Careers are for?

But… There have been Careers who never scored a kill, just helped find tributes on hunts or watched the supplies. I can definitely KO a couple of people—I grew up in a house with two brothers, thanks—and… I'd hate to help them out, but I'm in the middle of this, anyway. Odds are high I'll somehow contribute to someone's death, even if I'm not swinging a pickaxe at them. And as a Career, others would avoid me. And we'd have supplies. I already spent an hour at the edible plants station, and I memorized all of three of them. Sort of.

I look at Clovis, who's narrowing his eyes in impatience. Can I really sleep knowing this guy is right behind me?

Well, I don't do that much sleeping, anyway. And wouldn't it be better to have the real competitor as an ally instead of an enemy? Things are bound to go wrong at some point, but… Maybe it would be better…

I clear my throat.

"In."

* * *

(Christine Hamblin, Female, District 2)

I've pretty much dominated every facet of the crossbow station when I realize my district partner is staring at me.

"What's up?" I start, turning to face him with a slight smile. Normally I would suspect he's just checking me out, but he didn't pay me too much attention on our train ride here. He's probably just blown away by my skills and wants to make an alliance now.

"I, uh," he starts, clearing his throat, "wanted to know… Well, actually Clovis wanted to know, if you'd join the Career alliance."

"The Careers?" I repeat, raising my eyebrows. I shake my head with a chuckle. "Sorry, Jendra, but I won't be caught murdering any of my fellow human beings."

"Well, neither will I," he starts, frowning. He glances over his shoulder before dropping his voice. "Listen. So far only one of us is ready to kill. I'm just joining in for supplies and protection, and we'd be a lot better off with you joining us."

I just shrug and turn around to look over the other stations. "I refuse to associate with the likes of Careers."

"No, Christine, really, think about this," he says, throwing another glance over his shoulder before taking a step after me. "It's better for all of us. I know you have a good chance, especially sponsor-wise, but there's only so far you can get alone. And you won't even have to talk to Clovis, you know? You can just associate with me, and whoever else joins in, and we can get through this place together."

I hold his gaze for a moment and he shrinks the slightest bit.

"…Please?" he adds.

Shutting my eyes with an exhale, I end up nodding. Darned desperate puppy-dog eyes. You'd think after all the boys I have asking me out, I'd get a little bit of immunity to that sort of thing.

"All right, I'll join. But if anyone tries to make me kill, or if I have any other good reason, I'm leaving."

"O-okay," he replies, near breathless. "Thanks a lot." He nods and hurries off to report this to Clovis, who I realize has been watching him.

So I guess our District 1 boy is going to be the pack leader. Hmph. I hope he's not planning on being over-controlling. I'll just knock him out then and go off on my own. I don't buckle down to people. Especially not devilish little murderers.

Turning my back on the pair, I pick out another combat station—hand-to-hand—and get started. Naturally, I make quick progress even though I've never been one to pick fights at school or anywhere else. The instructor keeps promoting me to higher levels, and soon I've done well enough it's time to try my moves on him.

Just before we start fighting, I catch sight of the time and dismiss myself for lunch.

Of course I'm hungry; even if I did have a big breakfast, I've been working it off crazy fast. And… I may have also been panting a little too hard after all of that. Not that it would get bad enough for the instructor to defeat me in a spar—I'm better than that. I just… don't want to take chances. My lungs really aren't that great, despite my love of running. It always takes me way too long to get my breath back…

But that's fine. I won't have to put _that _much effort into defeating people. Half of the ones in front of me in the lunch line are nearly in tears from seeing their own weaknesses. I do feel sorry for them, but I can't be so heartfelt later. I promised to my family and myself I'd come home.

And the only way to do that is win.

* * *

(Typhon Undine, Male, District 4)

"Hey, guys," I greet, slipping onto the bench at the careers' lunch table. "What's up?"

Real sociable bunch we have this year. Both the girl from 1 and the boy from 2 shrug distantly, while an affected "Nothing much, thank you," is all I get out of the latter's district partner. Clovis ignores my amicability completely and changes the subject with a tone of suspicion.

"Where's your district partner?"

Oh, right. Embreli. Well, she wasn't too keen on the idea of joining the Career pack when I suggested it after the chariot rides, and nothing much has changed. I steal a brief glance at the corner of the room, where she's eating by herself like most of the others, then return my attention to our leader.

"She's not joining," I confirm, keeping my voice at a casual but confident level. "I tried to talk her into it, but she's got her mind set. Bit of a shame that we can't have all the girls, but hey, we'll survive."

Clovis scowls at my attempt at levity, but for whatever reason doesn't press the issue further.

There's a bit of an awkward silence as we poke at our food, then Christine from 2 takes up the helm.

"Right, then," she begins authoritatively. "We're one member short and, if I'm correct—" she lowers her voice briefly so only we can hear— "just one of us has been trained. That's worrisome, but nothing we can't—"

"Excuse me," interrupts Clovis, "who exactly is in charge here?"

"Oh, please," Christine scoffs. "Anyone can tell you're about as socially adept as a rock. Leadership takes more than the ability to glare at people, I'm afraid."

"So what are you going to do, District Two? Toss your hair at the competition?"

"I was _going _to suggest we recruit from the stronger non-Careers. That way, we bolster our ranks and eliminate some of the fiercest opposition at the same time. Although, with your limited people skills, they'd probably—"

"Um, guys," puts in Robin, "how about the boy from 10? Unless you were too busy arguing to pay attention, he did pretty well in training."

"Excellent idea, Robin!" Christine beams, obviously grateful for the support. "I'll get right on it."

She stands and pauses, seeming to expect Clovis to protest, but he just shrugs and fixes her with the same cold stare. Undaunted, Christine strides over to our potential ally and strikes up a conversation. While I can't quite hear what they're saying from here, it's obvious she's turning on the feminine charm. Not a bad idea—she's, uh, considerably more attractive than the typical District Two girl—but it doesn't seem to have any effect. Time remains silent, and when he does speak, whatever he said causes angry color to blaze in her cheeks.

Doing a remarkable job of holding herself together despite her obvious anger, Christine returns to the table with head held defiantly high.

"What did he say?" I ask.

"Nothing of importance," she hisses. "Other than the fact that he 'won't stoop so low as to join a group of trained killers' like ourselves. Of all the arrogant, self-righteous, judgmental... As if _I _would ever..."

Her district partner shoots her a pointed look. Whatever he's hinting at, it stings Christine even more.

"That's completely different," she retorts loftily. "I don't have to explain myself to you. Or anyone here, for that matter."

Well, this is going great. We're down to five members, only one of us has had any experience with a weapon outside of the Training Centre, the most dangerous of the other tributes is definitely going to be against us, and we can't even agree on a leader. What's more, Christine might feel comfortable in her new role of hunter, but going by the looks that flitted across Robin's and Jendra's faces when she repeated Time's words, not all of us are. I can't say I'm perfectly sold on it, either. Sure, the free supplies and protection sound good, and I'd probably lose it if I didn't have anyone to chat with in the arena, but at the end of the day I've got to have some blood on my hands if I want to get out alive.

But you know what? Everyone else is in the same boat. Life or death, kill or be killed, and worrying isn't going to change that.

Let's just hope I keep that in mind in the arena.


	15. Prospects

(Laurel Crumb, Female, District 5)

I think I'm probably the last one left in the eating area. I'm not sure why I'm still here, since all I'm doing is pushing a piece of gristle around with my fork. But there's not much of a point in me leaving, either. I did horribly at every station I tried yesterday, and I spent all this morning at the knot-tying station just so no one would be around to see me fail. I guess I didn't do that bad at knot-tying, but that's really not too much of a help, and I'll probably forget it all by tomorrow, anyway.

There's just nothing left for me to do. I'm no good at any of the weapons, and every bit of survival is completely foreign to me. I just have to sit here, watching everyone else, everyone who's going to be after my blood once the starting gong sounds…

One of them walks right up to me, and before I can shy away sticks out her hand to shake.

"Hello! What's your name?" she starts, words cheerfully clustering together so that it takes me a second to make them out.

"Um, Laurel?" I start, tentatively taking her hand. She does all of the shaking.

"Laurel! That's a wonderful name." She releases my hand, still smiling. "I'm Daysi, D-A-Y-S-I, and, yes, you have to spell it that way."

"Okay, I will." I blink. "Um, nice to meet you, Daysi."

"You, too!" She slides onto the bench next to me, showing no signs of leaving. I'm not sure why she's wasting her time with me, but… I guess I don't really want her to leave. Everyone's either ignored me or treated me like I'm not a person since I got reaped, so it's kind of nice…

"So how are you today?" she continues, propping her elbows on the table.

"Um… I'm all right," I say, though I hardly sound convincing. "I mean, I'm as scared as I should be, I guess." I look down, twirling a strand of hair in my fingers.

Why am I even doing this…? She's a tribute, too. She'll be in there with me. She'll be trying to kill me, and she could die, too. I don't want to—I mean, I just _can't _let myself see her as a person, too. It's going to be bad enough already.

"Aw." Daysi smiles at me sympathetically. "Well, don't be too worried." She swings her arms behind her suddenly, making me jump before I realize she's stretching.

"Hey! You want to be friends?" she starts once her arms are back in front of her.

"Um…" I look at her.

Really?

"Or allies, I guess, if you just want to call it that. Except they're not really the same, but they're kind of alike, but I'm fine with whatever, so yeah."

"Allies, too?" I echo. "Well…" I exhale, looking away from her cheerful face. "That's probably not a good idea for you… I saw you training; you're pretty able. You really shouldn't let me hold you back…"

She watches me a second before breaking back into her grin. "Oh, Laurel, you silly! If I thought you'd hold me up, I wouldn't be offering! If you'd feel bad about it, I guess we could just be friends, but we don't really have that much more time to hang out if we're not allies, but it's your choice."

I hesitate. "We…" Does she honestly want to be allies with me? Friends, even? She's really congenial, but does she truly want to bother with me?

"…We can be allies," I finally say, swallowing. "And… friends."

"Yay!" Daysi grins toothily and hops to her feet. "This is going to be exciting!" She holds out a hand to help me to my feet, and I eventually accept.

"Now let's go find some cool stations! Ooh, you haven't been to the animal-skinning one yet, have you?"

"Uh-uh."

"Well, let's go, then!" Still with one of my hands captive, she rushes forward, and I'm tugged along, unable to quite keep up but oddly happy nonetheless.

* * *

(Lyel Thalium, Male, District 3)

Lunch goes by quickly, for me at least. I'm sitting alone—Giyan isn't around, and I'm not that apt to start making new friends here—so there's no conversation, just face-stuffing. The food's great, but I'm a little too nervous to savour it. When I'm jittery, I tend to just shove down as much as possible. Good thing I don't always have this much food around me, or I'd have some problems around exam time. I'm fine being on the skinny side, thanks.

Well, I definitely won't have to worry about having too much food in a few more days. I still haven't had any success setting up snares or box traps, and the only things I memorized at the edible plants station were ones I already mostly knew. If I get any food, I'm going to have to pin it with a spear or something. Hopefully that'll leave enough meat edible…

It's probably a better bet to rely on sponsors. I'm not bad-looking, and I have some muscle on me, so that should get me some support. I think I'll have enough bets on me, especially since we're a bit lacking on Careers this year, but I don't know how long my source of supplies will last. Prices seem to go up awfully quick, and there's no way I could expect to get a full three meals every day.

The best idea for the long term, really, is an ally who can get food and is willing to share it. How exactly I get into that, well… The kinda-Career group has been recruiting, but I guess I'm not strong enough for them. That's all right, since I'm not sure I would want to ally with people who could dispatch me the second I let my guard down. I'd go for someone trustworthy.

I finish up my meal and go around the stations, looking for hunting-related ones. They're all vacant at the moment, and I have better things to do than humiliate myself again in wait of allies. No, I guess I'll check out some of the weapon stations.

The closest feasible stand is basic sword-fighting. I'm not likely to get one of those as a donation, but I could get lucky and have one near me at the beginning. Might as well cover all the bases I can, I guess.

Corsa the trainer sets me up with a lightweight, dulled model and gives me a few stances and basic moves to go through. She watches me for a while before excusing herself to help out the newest arrival. Looks like the guy from 9.

Hey… District 9 does some hunting, right?

I watch him for a second before he notices I'm staring at him. I awkwardly clear my throat and go back to practice. I'm not too bad at this so far. Maybe I'll impress him, and he can be the one asking for an alliance.

A few minutes after he's set up, it's obvious I won't be doing any better than him as far as swordsmanship goes. I'm definitely going to be the one pleading for an alliance. Well, here's hoping I'm either not too pathetic, or that he'll at least pity me enough to bother.

"Hey…" I start, sort of waving at him with my unoccupied hand. "You're the guy from 9, right?"

He lowers his sword and nods. "Yeah. Name's Gale." He holds out a hand to shake and smiles.

"I'm Lyel." I shake, my grip weak compared to his. "Hate to jump right into things, but…" I exhale, hoping he's as nice as he's acting. "You wouldn't be interested in an alliance, would you?"

He holds my gaze for a second before shrugging. "Sure, why not? You have something to offer?"

Aw, crud. "Of course. I mean, it's always good to be in an alliance regardless, but… I'm a good runner, I can climb rocks or trees like nobody's business, I have good endurance, and, well, I'm not too bad at sword-fighting so far."

He just looks at me for a second, and I'm sure I've blown it, but then he starts laughing.

"Aw, relax, man!" He taps me on the shoulder with his fist. "Sounds good enough for me."

I laugh back for a second, and then we go back to our practicing, exchanging tips every once in a while.

That easy to get an ally, huh? I can't say I have that good a chance still, but maybe, just maybe, I can get a little farther with Gale's help.

* * *

(Bellanca Groven, Female, District 3)

Lunch is over, so it's back to training. I suppose I've been doing adequately so far; at least, survival-wise. My attempts at the weapons stations have been, well... dismal. To make matters worse, my mentor has been no help whatsoever in that regard. It's not that I'm looking forward to the whole killing-people-thing, but just try to talk combat with her and she'll drift off into her own little world. I can't really blame her. From what I remember—and we have so few Victors that each one's Games gets replayed a lot—she wasn't exactly the most murderous tribute of the bunch. Mostly just made traps.

I end up following her advice and constructing a few myself. As it turns out, it's a skill we both possess. The trainer seems impressed enough by my trick wire and flying skewer that I give myself a few moments to rest. This quickly turns to letting my eyes and mind wander over the rest of the competition.

...Gosh, I can't believe I'm really here. I've never had a particularly difficult life, at least not for a districtgoer, so having this actually happen to _me _rather than some random person from the other side of town is... well, stressful, to say the least. It still doesn't seem like it's happening. As if Anda and Maurel are going to jump out of nowhere like usual and the Training Centre will evaporate like a wisp of smoke.

Realizing my breath rate is becoming worryingly fast and flighty, I turn back to the traps—

—And that's when something long and snaky launches itself at my head.

* * *

(Asher Barkley, Male, District 8)

Okay, so I thought it would be kinda funny to tease the District 3 girl by dangling one of the trap wires in front of her face. She was just sitting there, staring off into space with a gloomy expression, prime material for cheering up. Seeing so many people already letting the Games get to them... I wanted to try and make just _one _of them smile. Not to mention it would be a great way to break the ice before asking for an alliance.

Needless to say, I didn't expect her to completely lose it.

"Get it off! Get it off! It's in my hair!" she shrieks, batting hysterically at her head and attracting strange glances from every tribute in the vicinity. Equal parts mortified and baffled, I drop the wire to the floor and try to mollify her.

"Hey, hey! Relax!" I smile dorkishly. "It's just me."

Bellanca doesn't seem to see me at first, staring down at the offending object like it's a deadly viper. Gradually, she comes back to her senses and drags her gaze up again—except now it's set in a fuming glare.

"You idiot! What do you think you were doing?"

"Uh..." Darn, I _really _did not expect this. "Just playing around?"

I offer another lame grin, which she doesn't seem to appreciate much. Just great. My first attempt to make an ally and it terrifies another tribute out of her mind.

"Ha, ha. Very funny, playing around when we're all going to be fighting for our lives in a matter of days," she snarks coldly. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Well... I'm sorry?" I drop the goofiness completely in favor of sincerity.

Bellanca heaves a sigh of frustration. "It's okay, I guess," she mutters after a moment. "Just ... what do you think will happen if you pull a stunt like that in the arena?"

Just resisting the urge to say I'd probably be toast—she's definitely not in the mood for dark humor right now—I go with, "But we're not in the arena yet, are we?"

"That's completely beside the point."

"No, it's not!" I exclaim. "Look, we're in a bad enough situation as it is. How does it hurt to have a little fun while we still can?"

"Because most peoples' definition of 'fun' isn't getting attacked out of the blue. I'm hoping to save that for the Games, thanks."

"Aww, sheesh. I said I was sorry." I rub the back of my neck apologetically. "What was that all about, anyway?"

Bellanca returns to wringing her hands nervously. "I—nothing."

"C'mon, you can tell me."

"It's really none of your business."

"Why not?"

"Well, if you _have _to know," she lowers her voice substantially, "some crazy bird flew into our shop when I was little and went completely berserk. Flapping, cawing, screaming—it nearly clawed all my hair out. I guess it's a little silly, but it's been a phobia of mine ever since. Don't tell anyone, of course. And if you use it against me in the arena, I'll..." Apparently unable to come up with a sufficient threat, she finishes with a nervous laugh.

"What, you think I'd double-cross you?" I laugh. I mean, obviously I'm not the most sensitive guy in the world, going by my unintentional exploitation of someone's childhood fear, but you'd really think she'd trust me more.

That being said, we are in the Hunger Games, but, uh, I'd really rather not think about that...

"No, I just..." She manages a strained smile. "Just don't forget we're in a game of life and death. You might as well start treating it as such."

Thanking the trainer for her time, she takes down her traps and strides off to the next station, straight black ponytail twitching back and forth as she leaves.

...Well, too late to ask for an alliance, then?


	16. Performances

(Gale Blayley, Male, District 9)

Lyel and I are finishing up our meals, but we're taking our time. In just a few more minutes, they'll start calling people for our private Gamemaker sessions. Poor Lyel's going to be one of the first. But I'm sure he'll do fine. Me, too. No worries.

I sit with my arms folded on the table, my head resting on top of them, as Lyel finishes off the last of his meal plate and rotates a smaller plate toward him.

"Dessert?" I start, wishing the ticking clock didn't make the air feel thicker every second.

"Yup." His fork dives into the food. "Apple pie."

"American as apple pie," I mumble on some reflex. Lyel gives me a look. "Uh, sorry," I respond, laughing at myself. "Just some random thing I read once, I guess."

"Huh." He takes a bit and swallows it without much chewing. "So I guess they invented this stuff in that crazy wasteland or whatever before Panem, huh?"

"Guess so." I shrug. "Or it could have been earlier, before the USA crashed and burned."

"Well, actually," starts a new voice, "it was probably first baked in England and brought over when America was first being colonized."

I recognize the one who spoke as the small-framed, calm guy from Seven. It looks like he slid over a bit from his lounging place just to give us that little factoid.

"Not that I'm apple pie's biggest fan or anything," he adds with a smile. "I just like history in general."

"Is that right?" I watch him for a second. "I like history myself, but, uh, not many books on it, you know? I mean, I don't remember anything called England."

"Oh?" The Seven adjusts his glasses, looking pleased he can be of more service. "Well, it's this island way over in District 12's direction from here. It was around way before America. And so was the rest of Europe, and Asia, and Africa…"

"Uh, what?" Lyel joins in.

The Seven turns to him. "Oh, I guess we haven't put anything about them in most of our standard history books. But you know, America and some other countries were one continent, and Europe and Asia and Africa are more of those."

"Whoa, dude, whoa," I put in, pushing out my hands out in front of me for effect. "I don't think I can handle all that. Can we just stick to America?"

"Sure." He laughs a little bit. "What do you want to know about that place?"

"Well…" I pause a second, looking at the clock. "…Not too much you could tell me in ten minutes or so. You want to stay together in the arena and tell me then?"

He blinks in surprise. "You mean an alliance?"

I grin. "Well, what else did it sound like?"

"Nothing, I guess." The Seven glances over at Lyel, who hardly seems upset at the thought of another member on our team. "Are you sure, though? That you'd want me," the Seven says, smile faltering a bit.

Lyel jumps back in a little bit, shrugging. "You may not be a bodybuilder, but nobody's totally useless."

I nod. "And we'll need something to do when we're not beating up Careers or running from dogs or something."

"Yeah?" The smile returns to his face. "All right, I guess it's an alliance, then."

"Sounds cool to me." We all shake hands and exchange names.

So, an alliance of three, then? Huh. At first I wasn't planning to get with anyone here—I mean, it's going to be awful trying to kill other people, not to mention people I make my friends—but… I really don't like being alone. And just because I have friends here doesn't mean I'm going to go easy on everybody else, you know? It's pretty much impossible to win without killing anyone, and I'll have to get lucky if I don't kill any of the young ones or my new teammates, but… Hey. I think things should work out.

I hope.

* * *

(Samantha Ying, Female, District 9)

I'm gnawing on a last little bit of liquorice when I'm called to my private session. I bid farewell to the other tributes, who are kind of confused by it as they weren't really paying attention to me, and hop down the little hallway.

The room is still being shuffled around a little as I walk in. One Avox girl is placing knives on a table, and another is hauling away a shredded dummy. They scurry away quickly once they notice I'm here.

I guess I know what Gale did, then! I guess the hunters use a lot of knives and stuff. I wasn't born in that part of the district, so I wouldn't know. Well, they probably told us in school, but I'm not the best at paying attention in class. I'm either sleepy or on a sugar-high. Usually the sugar-high.

I swallow the last little bit of candy in my mouth and suddenly remember where I am. Whoops! I'd better start showing off then, right? Hope I wasn't zoned out too long, ehe!

I locate the Gamemakers and bow at them a little, though a lot of them are more focused on some big dish a waiter just brought out. I'd be pretty distracted, too, if that thing was in front of my face. I bet it smells better over there.

So, right! Showing off!

I warm up a little at the hand-to-hand station, though I'm not fighting a real person since I'm showing off my clawing skills, and it would be kind of mean to claw open somebody just because he works here.

Once my blood's going, I sprint—I'm a good sprinter, since I'm strong but I weigh, like, 95 pounds—over to the specialized weapons and put my hands on the one my mentor told me not to play with until now. Unlike the one we have hidden in our house for my just-in-case training, this one's shiny and new. The chain is rustless, the bottom isn't dropped out of the weight on the one end, and the sickle on the other is so shiny I'd be seriously distracted if I wasn't in serious mode right now.

I pick up the kusarigama, locate the dummies, and start spinning the weight over my head. Letting the chain escape my grasp, I send the weight crashing into one of the dummies and, wrapping my fingers around the sickle handle as it comes, lunge forwards and stab the dummy in its heart as it topples over.

For strike two, I locate a fake weapon-wielding dummy and start spinning the weight around again. A snap of the arm, and the weight and chain wrap around the weapon arm, rendering the weapon unusable regardless of the dummy's faculties. I tug hard, and the mannequin screeches toward me, right into the sickle.

Loosing the weapon, I back up from the field and start spinning the chain by its centre. Closing my eyes for a moment to concentrate, I get the best momentum and send the kusarigama flying. It jumps ahead of me, its sides not quite spinning in sync, and starts to veer off-course. Then one sudden jerk, and it wraps around the dummy, the scythe digging into its abdomen.

Knowing that had to be my grand finale, I immediately do a backflip and then cartwheel to face the Gamemakers, keeping my limbs flailed out as I shout, "Ta-da!"

I stand there for a second panting as the Gamemakers scribble their notes, gazes flicking on and off me. Then one in a fancy robe dismisses me, and I leave the room with a smile.

* * *

(Gavin Ivreck, Male, District 6)

If there's one positive thing to be said about the past few days, it's that I've gotten pretty good at tuning out Lucretia's screeching. Our _beloved _escort might have pulled off the timid act at the reapings, but since then she's turned into a real witch. Her current dilemma is that if I don't "get out here in ten seconds!" I'm going to miss the prelude to the training scores. Big deal. Like I want to see some Capitol freaks blather on about our chances anyway.

Taking my own sweet time, I shake out my damp hair—I'd built up enough sweat throwing knives for the Gamemakers that I had to shower—and pull on whatever clothes are nearby. Then, just to torment Lucretia a little further, I wait a few minutes before finally striding out the door.

"Where have you been?" she hisses as I approach. "It's almost time for District 1!"

"Whoop-de-do," I drone, savoring her disapproving scowl. It's not that I'm not interested in the scores—in fact, seeing how my competition stacks up is right next to breathing on my priority list. But as I'll be going for the apathetic 'bad boy' angle in the interviews, I might as well stay in character. And if that ticks off the staff, all the better.

First to appear on screen is the 1 boy—Clovis, was it? From what I saw in training, he seems like the only trained member of this year's Career's pack. Maybe my deadliest opponent. Let's see what he's got.

Eight. I can practically taste the viewers' disappointment. The entire population of the Capitol might share one brain cell, but even they must know it's nothing impressive for a Career.

His district partner manages a five—ouch—and the boy and girl from 2 receive a seven and an eight respectively. The girl from three is okay, with Lyel getting a bit better. Then it's back to the so-called Careers. Seven for the guy and five for the chick.

There's nothing to fear from District 5, whose boy gets a four. The girl does even worse. I cast a sideways glance at Daysi, but if she's having any doubts about her recent alliance, she doesn't show it.

...It boggles me how she could let herself get tied down like that. Sure, I know everybody wants a friend in the training center, but where's that going to land her in the arena? I wouldn't say no to an ally if it meant I'd have someone to watch my back, but I'd choose one who, you know, scored higher than three.

It's not like I look down on any sort of sentimentality. Just because I'm not as openly gung-ho about peace and friendship as my district partner doesn't mean I'm heartless. It just means I'm putting my life—and my family—above the wellbeing of random strangers. Obviously I'm not thrilled about having to become a killer, but when it comes down to it, morality isn't important anymore. All that matters now is getting back to mom and dad and Kamen.

The seven that appears under my picture bolsters my confidence that I'll be able to do just that.

While I just manage to keep my relief well-hidden—wouldn't want to seem like I'd been nervous, which I certainly wasn't, oh no—Daysi has a different idea. When her six flashes up on screen, she springs to her feet like some sort of hyperactive rabbit, grabs our escort's hands, and twirls her around. _Ugh._I roll my eyes, earning a scoff from Lucretia.

That's no damper on my spirits. Unless one of the remaining tributes pulls something amazing, I'm one of the highest scorers, second only to two 'Careers'. I aced every aim-based weapon in training, my interview angle won't be a stretch at all, and I'm willing to bet I have enough sponsors to buy me whatever I can't snag from the Cornucopia. It won't be a walk in the park, but nothing is going to stop me from seeing my family again. And if that means I have to disappoint a few peoples' loved ones in the process, well, better theirs than my own.

_Bring it on, Capitol. I'm ready. _

* * *

(Chervil Saducee, Female, District 10)

I think an hour's gone by since the scoring recaps ended. I'm not sure. I could always look over at the clock, but I haven't moved an inch since the TV flickered off, and I'm not sure I want to.

Seeing the scores only confirmed the truth that's been lingering in the back of my mind all this time. _I'm going to die. _Most likely in a couple of days. No more visiting friends, no more playing with my little brother, no more hugging the dolly my sister made me when I get lonely. No more _anything. _Just ... _dead._

I guess I should be glad that none of the other tributes got a really great score, like 10 or 11, but it's worrisome enough as it is. In the last several districts alone, more people than I can count on my hand got at least double my pitiful score of 3. The girls from seven and eight both got a 6. Both nines got 8s. The boy from eleven got 7. Worst of all, my own district partner, Time, earned a 9. Higher than all the Careers. He doesn't really seem mean, but—what if he's the one to... to ...?

There's just no way I'll be able to get through this. I could make allies; I was decent with throwing darts in training; I've got pretty good eyesight so I can see people coming from far off. But what use will any of that be in the long run? If one of the tributes gets a bow and arrow, I won't even have time to say goodbye.

Footsteps behind me. I freeze. I thought everyone had left, but someone must have heard my sniffling.

"...Hey?"

It's Time. I scrunch myself tighter into my curled position. I'm not sure I want to talk to him ...

"Chervil? You there?"

Against my better judgment, I find myself squeaking, "Yes!"

He comes around the side of the couch and seats himself cautiously next to me. His usual surly frown doesn't change, but his voice—which I haven't heard much of before, seeing he rarely says two words about anything—is soft.

"You ... okay, kid?"

"N-not really."

A sigh. "Figures."

One of my shoulders receives a gentle pat from a hand large enough to break my neck with one twist.

"I just can't stop thinking about the Games," I admit, voice quavering. "I know I don't have a chance, b-but I don't want to die. I—I'm so scared."

"I think we all are. You. Me. The others. Even our mentors."

He exhales deeply, folds his arms, and stares up at the ceiling. I can't tell whether he's lost in thought or out of things to say. The silence that settles is both tense and awkward.

... I hate this. Back home, I was always chipper, always friendly, always had something to say to anyone. Now, I'm so scared I can hardly talk without a stutter. I haven't felt any emotion other than fear and self-pity in days. The Games have already taken away everything—my home, my family, probably my life. Do they have to take away _me _as well?

"I just wish I could... talk to them one last time." Tears are starting to prickle at my eyes, and the more I wipe them away, the more they come. "My family. What if it h-happens too quickly in the arena? I might never get the chance..."

Time ponders this for so long I begin to think he's just ignoring me. Finally, he answers, his slow, thoughtful tone brightened with the hint of a smile.

"I wouldn't be too sure of that."

* * *

Feet shuffling nervously, I give a hesitant knock to the male Victor's door. I know he's not my mentor, but he was nice enough on the train, and Monifa's too drunk to remember my name most of the time, so... here goes.

"Yes? What's going on?"

Time was right. He is scared, too. It has to be past midnight, but he clearly hasn't slept a wink.

"I have these for—for my family. Can you give them to them if I—after the Games are over?"

Without even waiting for his reaction, I thrust into his hands the letters on which are written my final goodbyes, and tear down the hallway to my room. All alone, I burrow beneath the covers, grip my sister's rag doll, and cling to the knowledge that, for however long this moment lasts, no one will hurt me.


	17. Motivations

(Robin Zabat, Female, District 1)

"I don't think this angle is working for you," sighs my mentor Twilight.

I cross my legs, more from boredom than impatience. We've gone through so many angles I've lost count. Most of them don't work quite so well on me as they would others, since I'm not a Career like most District 1 girls.

I am part of the pack this year, though. At least, for a while. I'm from a Career district, so the audience will expect good things from me, and I'll have sponsors. But if I run off by myself like I'd really rather do, I'll lose them.

So, I'll just stick with the pack for a bit so I can have access to the Cornucopia and its supplies. I'll leave whenever the timing's right. Until then, I don't see any problem with being with them. I may have to kill people for them to accept me, but I would have to, anyway, and, well… That's all too worrisome. I don't need to focus on it much now. I'm still trying to work out how my interview will go.

I turn my attention back to Twilight, who is looking at me thoughtfully.

"So…" She scrunches her face to the side. "What angle do _you _think you'd be good at?"

"Something closer to my personality than bubbly," I suggest a bit sardonically.

A small smile comes across her face. "How about something more sarcastic, then? Keep the innocence, though. Remember to go along with what Caesar's saying, not to ask questions of your own."

"All right, all right." I clear my throat and sit up straight again. "Hit me."

Twilight takes a moment to get in character and starts, "So, Robin, tell us how you're going to win the Hunger Games."

I don't let myself pause. "By becoming the victor, of course."

* * *

The audience apparently thinks this is funnier than Twilight did, as they and Caesar both chuckle.

"Would you like to be a little more specific on that?" Caesar continues, still grinning as he tips the microphone toward me.

"Not particularly." I'm starting to sound more like a jokester than a lover of sarcasm, but if it works, it works. Between the spotlights and the fur-topped dress, I'm a bit too overheated to be thinking quite straight.

Then again, the audience is eating this up, so maybe this could get me just as many admirers. And it's natural enough at the moment, so why not?

"Ah, not revealing your strategy, eh?" Caesar hints.

"No, that's pretty much my strategy," I reply with a shrug.

I wonder if the audience is really enjoying this as much as it sounds like. Is it because Clovis was playing the sullen angle? They're just relieved to get some actual responses, if this counts. Would they be this appreciative if I weren't just the second one up? Or maybe some of the guys are just cheering because this outfit shows a bit more than is generally appropriate in the districts?

I can't say for sure. But I seem to be doing well enough in this interview, and I'll take what I can get. Just lock away the questions until I have nothing better to think about. Just like usual.

I turn back to Caesar, ready for more.

* * *

(Fawn Cobb, Female, District 7)

My mentor and escort have settled with a sort of standoffish, unconcerned angle for me tonight. I suppose that, since I scored higher than expected in training, they're trying to build me up as self-assured. Like I'm so certain of my chances that I see the entire thing as a waste of time.

It's not going to work.

The aloof aspect won't be too difficult, if my escort is to be believed—and she's right, as I've spent most of my free time this week alone—but as for the rest? I'm not some sort of Career. I have no confidence on the best of days, let alone the worst. I can't act like I believe in myself when I've never been able to, say, stand up to my father about my brothers' treatment. True, that's then; this is now. But now isn't much better.

It's impossible not to feel increasingly nervous as each buzzer brings me closer to the undesired spotlight. Not to mention that my usual insomnia is making it very hard to concentrate. By the time the boy from 6 is up, enacting my angle better than I ever could, my nails are down to stubs and I feel about ready to vomit.

"Ladies and gentlemen, that was Gavin Ivreck, District 6!"

I don't budge until my name is called twice, prompting me to slink reluctantly over to Caesar. _At least I'm getting the "standoffish" part right, _I think weakly, though it's fear rather than overconfidence which drags my feet.

"Here she is, folks!" he roars before turning a beaming face to me. "So, Fawn. How are you feeling about your chances tomorrow?"

_Think, think. Take it slowly. Remember your angle. _The brightness of the spotlights, the exhaustion of nights spent lying awake, and my own anxiety press down on me like a stifling blanket. It's a few moments before I have my response worked out, and I'd be lying if I said the venom was an act.

"Does it matter?" I snap. "Whatever happens tomorrow, it'll happen whether or not I let you in on anything."

"Oh, she's got spunk!" the interviewer cheers. A few unenthusiastic laughs rumble from the crowd, but they're obviously not sold. I can't say I blame them.

We go on like this for a while, Caesar trying to get me involved, me responding as rudely as possible. I'm not sure how close this is to the angle, but it works for me. The Capitol has done more than just reap me—they've turned my best friend into a voiceless servant, stood by as my brothers suffered years of abuse, and are just as responsible for the faint scars on my wrists as I was when I wielded the knife. If I have to take my moment onstage, I won't spend it smiling for the people who've made my life hell.

"Is there anything you'd like to say to your family, any friends, back home?" Caesar asks finally, towards the end of my three minutes.

_Yes, there is._ I'd like to tell my brothers I'm sorry I couldn't do more to protect them from Dad. I'd like to ask him if he feels anything, seeing his only daughter in this position. I'd like to call out to Sarlene that, wherever she is, I haven't forgotten her. But I'll never be able to, will I? Not in the words I'd like to use, anyway.

"I want to tell my brothers that whe—if—I come back, things aren't going to stay the way they were," I phrase carefully, hoping they'll get the meaning. "And as for my friend—" I hesitate over whether or not to say her name before deciding the Capitol probably didn't even ask for it before ripping out her tongue— "Sarlene, I hope that if you're watching this, you know I still think of you. A lot."

Mercifully, the buzzer rings right there. I hurry back to my seat in the shadows as Caesar tries to instill some sort of enthusiasm in the watching Capitolites.

I wonder if any of them could see the fear in my eyes.

* * *

(Besra Tamarisk, Male, District 7)

Fawn's buzzer goes, and I have barely a moment to panic before I'm summoned up to center stage.

It goes without saying that I'm not looking forward to this. My mentor was at a complete loss for what to do with me, so I don't have a solid angle in mind. Apparently I'm supposed to "go with the flow" and be myself, which is probably a euphemism for winning pity points. I guess I could always rattle off some interesting facts for the audience, though I doubt they'd be as appreciative as my newfound allies were, and... Yeah, let's not go with that idea.

"All right, Besra. How have you found your experience in the Capitol so far?" Caesar begins. "Must be pretty different from District 7, am I right?"

"Yes," I respond nervously. "There's... less trees."

The audience is so silent I can practically hear Gale and Lyel groaning from backstage. _There's less trees? _Of all the stupid, pointless, ineloquent things to say...

"What I mean is," I interject before Caesar can get in another word, "it's a lot more civilized." Not that I like that about it, but I know it's what they want to hear. "Much of District 7 is mere wilderness. In fact, my family—well, technically the Capitol—owns a large collection of birds used to study the ecology of the forest, particularly the deepest bits where humans haven't gone in years. There are quite a few different species—"

"Isn't that interesting, folks!" our host interrupts, pulling the mike back to himself. I'm irritated by being cut off before realizing I'd inadvertently gone into facts-reciting mode. Okay, so I guess it's not the most fascinating subject for Capitolites, but...

"On another topic," Caesar continues, "what do you think of the other tributes this year?"

_Crap. _Why do we have to drag the conversation to people? I'm much more comfortable discussing birds or trees or history—frankly, anything—than the kids who will be out for my blood if I'm still alive this time tomorrow.

"Erm..."

"Well, how about your strengths?" Caesar prompts, obviously sensing my awkwardness. "What've you got in store for us?"

"I've picked up some things here and there," I say truthfully. From what I've learned from life in District 7 and from the Training Centre, I'm fairly confident with the survival-based aspect of the Games. As for the combat part, well... thanks to Gale, I hopefully won't have to worry about that much.

"Anything in particular?"

"I'm pretty good with... uh, plants. I know which ones are safe to eat and which aren't." That's not giving away too much, right? Just in case some other tributes are paying a little too much attention, I rattle off a few poisonous ones amongst the edibles. "You know, butterfly weed, baneberry, redbud, nightlock..."

The buzzer cuts me off halfway through my list. It's just then that I notice the glazed looks in the first few rows' eyes. Expressions of pure boredom.

...I'm not getting any sponsors, am I?

* * *

(Time Wescal, Male, District 10)

I don't have a good feeling about my interview. My mentor isn't that hot at thinking up a good angle, and my escort is of the average Capitol intelligence. Between the two of them, they came up with my angle being "suave and handsome". Naturally, I'm neither. With my stylist's help, I'm still mostly neither. I may have a lot of muscle, but it's just not arranged in the way girls seem to like. As for "suave"… The motion of a head shaking slowly and hopelessly describes me in that category more than words.

I'll have to attempt it, though. I've never flirted with girls, nor has anyone flirted with me that I've noticed. The escort tried to give me a good lesson, but the Capitol style of light romance is a bit too blunt and suggestive for me. I'll give it a shot, but I have to twist it some, or I won't be comfortable.

The interviews pass, buzzers buzzing every time I start to get engrossed in some train of thought. Next to me, Chervil is bobbing her foot, biting her lip, trying desperately not to burst into tears at some of the more threatening tributes' appearances. The poor girl. Not that anyone here is really very fortunate, of course, but not only does she not have a chance, she's convinced she doesn't have a chance. It would be so much easier if she went down not realizing it, but I know it's impossible for most people to not worry. I just hope she plays her angle well. Maybe, with nothing else being of much help, knowing people are sponsoring her could boost her confidence.

That's sort of how the interviews go. Another of the events leading to the arena that can make or break. But instead of a missed target in front of others in the Training Centre, instead of a weak sword slash in the Gamemaker demonstrations, a word or two is all it takes to go either way. Kind of odd in a way. How words can still be so important when we're in a life-and-death battle.

I know words and promises were awfully important in those days in the Training Centre. Telling the Careers no. Telling Zee yes.

Sometimes I wonder if that was a good decision. Strategically, not at all. She's pregnant, with morning sickness and not enough physical strength. She'll only drag me down if I have to escape from something or someone hostile. But when we're not, she won't be too much of a burden, I think. Unlike me, she's good at identifying plants that _people_ can eat. And I'm just as adept at punching as running, so if the threat's not too much, I can attack instead of flee. Still, she's going to be a burden to take care of, no doubt.

But how good was my suggestion ethically? It certainly felt right—she's all but defenseless, as I've established—but is it really better to choose her over, say, Chervil? Would it be better to "adopt" all of the weaker ones? I feel like it would be. But somehow I have to find a balance between what's right and what works. And I feel like I'm leaning too far on the "what works" side. But I could always give a hand to someone in the arena. But how would the sponsors take that? What if I pity someone manipulative? It's just too difficult to properly weigh everything, especially when my life and so many others' are on the line.

That's why such horrible things happen in the arena. Everything's too important, too vital, too urgent to allow enough thought. It's really no place for me.

And my seat's no place for me now, as the 9 girl's buzzer has sounded. Here goes my chat with Caesar. Let's hope for the best.


	18. Impressions

(Zeetra Creal, District 11)

Caesar Flickerman's makeup is blood red.

I'm not sure when I noticed that, or why it should keep drawing my gaze away from the crowd. All I know is that the substance slathered over his face is the exact same color that may soon stain my own body, or my baby's, or that of any of the kids around me, or _my baby's...!_

_Oh, god. I can't do this. _I clutch the edges of the chair, whiteness rising in my knuckles. I'd give anything for Carlo to be here. I've never been able to cope with stress; my breakdown at the reapings was surely evidence enough of that. My fiancée is the only one able to steady me. He's my rock. My shelter. My everything. _My child's father..._

"So, Zeetra," comes Caesar's voice, a long way off. "Anything else you'd like to say to the audience? About your condition?"

My temper flares at the sympathy in his voice. Compassion from the likes of him is disgusting. As if he'd really lift a finger to help anyone in my situation, not if his job or status or easy little life was at stake...

_No, that's not right. _Pity is good. Pity will help me. If Caesar feels bad, then the audience will too, and isn't that what I've been striving for all this time? It's not as if anyone would sponsor me for, say, my combat skills.

_That's not going to be enough! _Plenty of other tributes are trying to win pity points. The girl from twelve is engaged as well; with two similar competitors in the running, will anyone be swayed towards me rather than someone not slowed down by pregnancy?

This back-and-forth arguing continues for what feels like several minutes before it dawns on me Caesar is still waiting for an answer. Allowing my face to crumple into a sob—just what it's been begging to do this whole time—I do what comes easiest and let the audience see the waterworks.

"I–I just want you all to remember," I wail, "that it's not just me who's g-going into the arena. If I... don't make it, neither will my baby. S-so won't you give your money to a poor girl who just wants to be a good mother?"

The buzzer rings the next instant. There. That's the last chance I had. Hopefully I've persuaded—or guilted—enough people into sponsoring me, because if not... well, then that's it.

_Not necessarily,_ I reason as I return to my seat and scrunch as far away from that scarlet make-up as I can. I do have Time as an ally. He's strong, did relatively well in his interview—he didn't say much, but the tough, silent angle works for someone his size—and seems kind enough. But the rapid pounding in my chest reminds me he'll have to turn on me at some point.

Could he really do that, though? Could any of these people really kill a—a baby? I guess the real question is whether or not I'll be able to kill him.

_Of course you can kill him. You will kill them all. Every last one of them, as soon as you can, before they can knife you in the back, or the belly, o-or..._

My face ends up in my clammy hands, fingers burrowing through my hair. As if the universe has decided the stress of being reaped wasn't enough, mood swings and morning sickness have teamed up to drive me even further over the edge. Every other tribute has at least some degree of independence. I'm a slave to both the Capitol and my pregnancy.

I don't know how much longer I can go without breaking. But it will have to be long enough to get my baby and me home. It will have to be.

* * *

(Elias Malka, District 11)

Finding an angle has been pretty difficult. Chaff wasn't pleased with my training score; apparently, I should have hidden my strengths so I could surprise the audience in the arena. Now that I've gotten a seven, though, I can't rely on that sort of ruse. And as it turns out, I don't have what it takes to go for cocky or confident either. So I'm pretty much winging it. Just like half the others.

I guess I could have planned ahead better, aimed for a lower score. Truth be told, between what happened to my brother four years ago and what's happening to me now, I can hardly think straight.

Caesar begins with a few warm up questions. I've never been too talkative around strangers, so my responses are short and slightly awkward. It's not long, however, before the interviewer hits a sensitive spot.

"Anyone in particular you'll be fighting for, Elias? A special someone, maybe, or a sibling?"

"Yes," I say unhesitatingly, more certain about this than anything so far. "My big brother, Ryley. He means the world to me."

"I'm sure you do to him, too," Caesar assures. "Do you think he's watching right now?"

"Actually... he's no longer with us."

Caesar makes a sympathetic noise that's echoed by the crowd. "That's a shame. Would you like to talk about it?"

Does it really matter whether or not I'd _like _to? It's obvious that I can't. The Capitol knows what happened; they wouldn't make it any easier on me or my parents if I so much as mentioned the fire. Especially now that I'm beginning to suspect Ryley really was a rebel. There's a certain stigma attached to the word back in District 11, where keeping your life comes before improving it. But if Ryley could have seen any of _this, _there's no way he wouldn't be one. And, deep down, it makes me all the more proud of him.

"N-no, thanks," I answer quietly. "But I'll be doing this for him, all the same. H-he was the best friend I ever had, and I just hope I can live up to his memory."

A few "awwws" from the audience are drowned out by my buzzer. These ones actually sounded rather genuine.

I guess that's it, then. I don't really know how I feel about tomorrow. Nervous, sure—I've practically bitten my nails down to stubs just thinking about it. Angry, too, though more on the inside than out. As for scared... I've been trying to avoid that as much as possible. I'm still the same person I was on the train—trying to push all this out of my mind, to dwell on anything other than what's coming up. I guess that's left me with nothing to focus on but my brother. What he would have done in this situation, what he would be thinking if he were still alive, what he must be thinking anyways, because he can't really be all gone, not when I need him so much...

Tomorrow, I'll focus. I don't like the thought of looking this straight in the eye, but I'm going to have to. Because Ryley wouldn't have given up, and he wouldn't have wanted me to, either.

I'll give it my best shot. I've got a physical advantage, and while I'm at the younger end of the competition, most of the Careers aren't that much older than me. With any luck, I should be able to snag something useful from the Cornucopia and make it out in time.

And if all fails, well...

Then at least I'll get to see Ryley again.

* * *

(Thalia Hawkmoon, District 12)

The boy before me completes his interview, the audience a bit quiet, and then I'm up.

I stand—something I wouldn't be able to do in these heels without today's long training—and walk lightly over to Caesar.

"And next, here's Thalia Hawkmoon!"

I bow my head a little and with a carefully small smile tell him, "I go by Tally, thanks." I pause, but before he can ask another question, I let out a choking sobbing noise and sniffle a little. Acting is difficult, but I can get all the way to making myself cry just thinking about the terrors my family and I are about to face.

"Oh, Tally!" Caesar exclaims, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Is everything all right?"

I nod, taking a minute to swallow before responding. "I-I'm sorry, Caesar," I start, restraining myself from rubbing my nose, "it's just… Xavier was the first one to call me that, and…"

"Xavier," Caesar repeats for the audience, patting my back a little bit. "He's your fiancé, isn't he?"

"Uh-huh." Another sniffle. "J-just my fiancé. We're never… We're never going to be able to get married now." I'm almost starting to forget this is mostly an act. "It was going to be this next spring… We were going to have it outdoors… His cousins were going to be ringbearer and flower girl, and, oh, there were going to be flowers everywhere! It was going to be… so beautiful…"

"Hey, now," Caesar starts quietly. "Who said you won't be able to have that wedding? You can win. You have a chance, don't you think?"

"I… I guess so," I start. "I-I'm not all that strong, or fast, or anything, but… if I just had a lot of help…" I look out pleadingly to the cameras. "I really don't want to lose this, Caesar. I have to go home. As much as I need Xavier, he needs me, too. And my family, they need me. I have to get back home, but I just c-can't without help."

"I'm sure you'll have help," Caesar says to me. He turns to the audience. "People are out there right now just waiting until they can sponsor you." Some light cheering from the audience.

I sniffle, letting myself smile hopefully. This isn't the response some of the others have gotten, but that's all right. Sponsors donate to people they think will win first and foremost, but that's also whom the Careers and others target. I'm counting on those in the Capitol with a little sympathy to help me out until I can show the rest I'm worth their efforts.

Because I will be able to. Because the arena can throw Careers and harsh environments and earthquakes and floods and volcanoes and man-eating mutts and mutts that a-aren't even that nice, and…

B-but I'll overcome. Like I said, I have to. For them, for me, most of all for Xavier.

Caesar asks me for a final comment, and I swallow some tears.

"I'll leave you with what's most important to me in all of this. I love you, Joy, Skylar. And Xavier..." I sniffle. "I love you more than I can say. I'll do my best to come back to you."

The buzzer rings, he says my name once more, and I'm dismissed. Jace steps up, and I take my seat, my tears not all as fake as I'd like.

* * *

(Jace Maytra, District 12)

It's impossible to tune out the buzzers, and even harder to tune out the tributes. Because they're all going to be after me tomorrow. _Tomorrow_. How am I supposed to keep my cool for an interview when I'm being shipped off to my death in less than 24 hours?

I just need to distract myself or something, not that it's that likely to work. So… My angle is mysterious loner. I've been drilled so much I think I could pull it off in my sleep. In wakefulness, maybe not so much, but I'll make it, I think. Even though I haven't said or done much that's notable or even positive, Haymitch got a good enough grip on me he could get me an angle I could work with. I guess I sort of am a mysterious loner, though those words make it sound kind of cool. It's really not. In case it wasn't bad enough stumbling through school and life without any close friends, now I have to go the arena alone.

Though it's not like I'd really trust anyone, anyway. How could I? They all have to kill me to live, and I them. There's really no way to trust anyone unless they have no idea what they're doing.

Except tributes in alliances usually do better… But, oh, it's too late, anyway. I've shown how weak I was in the Training Centre, and no one's come up to me. I'm doomed to be alone here, too.

The others carry through their interviews, some more skilled than others. Hostile or fun but devious Careers, some average kids, some tearstruck ones, some with no strong angle. The girl from 10 starts the interview in tears but finishes a little more relaxed and friendly. The big guy after her is pretty emotionless, though he does sort of try to seem approachable.

Getting closer to me. Am I ready for this? Hope so. Probably not.

The 11 girl is up, in light tears the whole time talking about her family and her baby.

Crap… She's pregnant? If the Capitol's not cruel enough already, making us go through this, there's a _baby _in here, too? One that I'll have to be trying to kill! It's beyond belief. How could they do this to us? Really, how could they? Even I have trouble believing people could really go that low.

And then the buzzer rings, and her district partner's up. He isn't all there, but he does pull some of the audience's strings with Caesar's help. My district partner is about the same. And they're taking her away from her wedding... That Capitol...!

The buzzer rings too quickly, and it's my turn. I walk over the Caesar, adjusting my collar, and take a deep breath.

Caesar starts me off with the basic questions and never finds reason to stray from them. What my strategy is—stay alive, adjust to the situation, etc.—how my family must be—more confident than I am, I can't help mentioning—and such. It's actually pretty easy for me to stay in-character, despite knowing what's going to happen tomorrow, to me and to all of the others and to that baby…

"And do you have a final note to leave us with?" Caesar asks at last, knowing time is almost up.

"Yes." _I may not look like much, but there's more to me than what you can make out. I can plan, I can last, and I can win. Count on it._

But the rehearsed words don't quite make it out of my mouth.

"People of Panem," I start, my voice low. "If our lives are just a game to you, then we've already lost."

There is nothing but silence and paled faces ahead of me, and I know I've said something so reckless I'll have to pay for it. But I'm not going to make it, anyway. I'm scared out of my mind for my life, but maybe now it might mean something. Someone who stood up for something, instead of just another tribute.

Probably not. But maybe.

Not sure how to make my remark sound like something else, Caesar adjusts his tie for the brief moment before my buzzer rings.

"Then thank you, Jace Maytra, tribute from District 12."


	19. Misunderstandings

Author's Note: Well, this is the last chapter before the Games at last begin! Thanks for sticking with us, and thanks for the reviews!

Also, I have a new poll up on my profile, so please vote for your favourite tribute!

* * *

(Sabina Rufillius, Female, Capitol)

"And we're on in five," Aelia warns. I cast a glance over to where my camerawoman is adjusting a microphone, vibrant pink nails drumming an impatient rhythm on the tabletop.

"Oh, calm down, I'll be right there!" Dismissing her worry with a toss of my hair, I return my attention to Cassia. My young niece is seated on a squishy cushion beside me, practically bubbling with excitement over her first live Capitol broadcast. "So, have you decided who you're going to be sponsoring yet? The Games start tomorrow, you know!"

"Like anyone could forget, with you going on and on," she laughs good-naturedly.

"Yeah, well." I wink and stick my tongue out a little. "You'd still better get a move on."

"I just can't decide!" Cassia exclaims, hugging a pillow excitedly. "The guy from Four's kinda cute, but I like the Ten girl, too, and it'd be fun if I could get, um, whatsherface... Thalia!—back to her boyfriend." She grins. "Can't I sponsor them all?"

"Nice try, kiddo," I respond, ruffling her hair. "Don't worry; you can always figure it out after the first day's over. And I'm _coming!_" This last is directed at Aelia, who seriously looks like she's going to murder me if I don't get on stage this instant.

Weaving my way between the room's assortment of bejewelled couches, expensive statuettes and potted plants, I spring in front of the camera just in time. The last strand of my hair is pushed into place, my new dress is adjusted, and a beaming grin brightens my face. All ready!

"Greetings, everyone, and _welcome _to the final pre-Games broadcast of the year!" I cheer to canned applause. "As you all know, it's just struck midnight, and in less than eight hours our lucky tributes will be on their way to the 61st Hunger Games. Shall we begin by seeing who's highest in the betting?"

I pause a moment for the audiences back home to roar their approval. Just to milk the moment for all it's worth—I love my job—I cup a hand to my ear and tease, "I can't hear you!"

This time Cassia and even a few of the cameramen join in.

"That's better! Now, if you'll feast your eyes upon the screen—" I gesture to my left, where a graph headed with tributes' pictures has materialized on the wall—"you'll see that the current favorite to win is our District 1 boy, Clovis Noken, followed closely by District 10's Time Wescal, District 2's Christine Hamblin, District 4's Typhon Undine, and District 9's Gale Blayley! Disagree? Then be sure to cast your votes in tonight's poll and let the nation know what you think!

"As for the favorites in sponsorship terms," I continue, as a different graph appears, "Christine Hamblin is leading the pack, with Typhon Undine, Gale Blayley, District 9's Samantha Ying, and District 6's Gavin Ivreck not far behind! Remember, it's never too late to sign up as a sponsor—you might just bring home a winner!"

I embellish that last with a thumbs-up and the widest, cheesiest smile I can muster. Sure, I must have said that line every year since I got this gig, but I just never get tired of it.

The show goes on for a while longer, with various guest stars voicing their opinions on what they think the arena will be like or who they want to see claim the Victor's crown. Once or twice, there's an awkward silence followed by a not-so-subtle change of topic when the conversation falls upon something nobody wants to think about. Like the special guest our District 11 girl is bringing into the arena. Or the 12 boy's controversial words this evening. I can't say I'm disappointed by the avoidance of these subjects. What's the point of trying to ruin something as fun as the Games with overly sentimental thinking? It's no good for anyone.

Well, some of my old friends would have disagreed. I can't believe some of the awful things they've said. As if the Games are akin to murder or something of the sort. Like I ought to frown the whole time I watch them.

I guess that's why I took this job. To prove to them I don't have to feel bad about smiling.

I wonder what happened to them. I haven't seen them in a while. Not since they joined that anti-Games protest...

But, anyway! That's enough of that!

By the time Seneca Crane has finished dropping hints about some of the muttations—nothing too revealing, of course, because even though this isn't being broadcast to the Tributes' Training Centre, there's no reason a mentor or escort couldn't be watching from elsewhere—Cassia's eyelids are beginning to droop. I can't blame her; it's nearly one in the morning. Poor darling. She's gotten herself so excited about tomorrow, she'll barely be awake for tonight's big moment!

"... and right before we wrap up," I conclude, "let me welcome the most important guest of all!" At my enthusiastic beckoning, Cassia shakes off enough of her sleepiness to skip into the spotlight. "Introducing my favorite niece, Cassia Lucianus! Tell us, sweetie, what's extra special about today?"

Cassia grins, showing off perfect ivory-white teeth, as she grasps the microphone. "It's my twelfth birthday!"

"That's right!" I exclaim. "Have you decided who you'll be sponsoring yet?"

"Not telling," she giggles coyly, though the four fingers she holds up to the camera tip me off that a certain boy from the fishing district may have worked his charms on her.

"Well, I guess I'll just have to wait a little while longer," I conclude, "as will the rest of this nation! Tune in this time tomorrow for the latest news regarding the first day of the Games! Don't forget to vote, sponsor, and do whatever else you can to make this the most memorable year yet! So, until next time, happy 61st Hunger Games—"

"—And may the odds be ever in your favor!" finishes Cassia.

The camera flicks off, and my smile remains firmly in place.


	20. First to Fall

Author's Note: So the Games begin. Thanks to all who submitted wonderful tributes for us to massacre. They're all greatly appreciated and important, even if they're about to die. After all, it would hardly be a Hunger Games without a bloodbath.

* * *

(Christine Hamblin, Female, District 2)

My eyes flash open when my wake-up call comes.

Apparently I did fall asleep. While I'm not really that worried, or excited, it's still kind of hard to calm down when I know I'm about to go into the Hunger Games. But I'm sure a lot of the other tributes didn't get any sleep, let alone the several hours I think I got. So I'm already at an advantage. Not that I wasn't already.

My stylist has already set out a plain little dress for me to wear on the ride to the arena. After a little bit more waking up and the summoning of said stylist, I'm led to the roof.

A hovercraft pops suddenly into view, and a ladder descends. I seize it like a lifeline, and my grip freezes into place. The ladder is reeled in as the hovercraft starts floating forward, onward, to the arena and all that comes with it.

…Maybe I _am_ a little bit excited.

* * *

(Asher Barkley, Male, District 8)

Once my tracker's injected and I'm freed from the ladder's current, it's time to take the last step into the hovercraft. But my nerves are too weirded-out from the paralysis, and I sort of stumble and flail into a heap just out of range of the door. My stylist gives me a somewhat sympathetic nod before walking past me.

"Sorry, Martinus," I start, pushing myself up and jogging after him. "Forgot I wasn't a rag doll for a second there."

He chuckles. "Welp, glad it came back to you eventually. Hey, we've got breakfast if you want something to eat." He rolls his shoulders back. "I don't know about you, but I'm _starving_! Had to get up early to arrange some sponsors and never got the chance to eat." He tsks.

"Thanks for your sacrifice, then."

"Yeah, yeah. Just win for me, will you?"

"Believe me, I'll try." I take a seat at the table he leads me to. "Whenever I need inspiration, I'll just think of your glowing yellow face." At that, the next sentence comes automatically. "It's sure to brighten up my day. Eh? Eh?" I nudge him.

He snorts in laughter. "It'd better."

I laugh with him and trail off awkwardly once he's finished.

Ohh, I am so nervous right now. But it's okay. Going to the Games, but, you know, someone's got to get out alive. I have good enough chances. And really, who'd throw a knife at a face like this?

Okay, possibly most of them. But it's all right. I got this. It'll all work out.

I just have to keep my spirits up.

* * *

(Darrel Jutters, Male, District 5)

I only take one bread/pastry/whatever before wandering over to a window and staring out. We're high in the sky. Even the birds are below us.

I'm glad I can at least watch them for now. The windows'll black out soon, I know. Then I'll probably just keep staring at them. Not much else to do but pace and worry. And you won't catch me doing anything like that.

Not that I'm not worried. There's a good chance I'll be dead in a few hours, and that terrifies me. But it won't do me any good to dwell on that. It won't change.

The windows go black, and I actually manage to keep staring at them blankly, imagining the birds that must still be flitting about, until the hovercraft lands. I go down the ladder it seems I just came up, and after a moment more of walking I'm in the Launch Room.

Here I'm finally handed the clothes I'll wear in the arena. An undershirt with a thin-but-sturdy, grey, short-sleeved shirt. Blue jeans and a plain leather belt. Socks and shoes with thick, ridged soles.

Don't know what kind of arena that forebodes. Somewhere fairly warm, but not worthy of shorts. Not much of a clue.

But that's all right, because I refuse to worry about this.

I keep telling myself that as the clock ticks down.

* * *

(Fawn Cobb, Female, District 7)

I'm grateful for the fake nails my stylists gave me, because they're all I have left to bite on now.

I'm already in the Launch Room. The Calender, as we in District 7 call it. The last step in paper preparation before you're shipped out to be sliced up. It's not too long, definitely not long enough, before I set foot in the arena.

Just as I think that, a voice comes over the intercom. I'm to step to my platform now.

Trying to take deep breaths between gnawing all of the polish off my nails, I step over. It's all right. It's all right. The worst you can do is die, and you're halfway suicidal, anyway. The best you can do is get out, and then you can fix so much at home. The boys don't have to get beaten any more, and maybe I can help Dad get over Mom's death… There's too much for me to do to just give up. I have to conquer, not cry.

Laelia helps me step onto my plate and smiles at me. Considering her emerald-studded, blinding-white teeth, this isn't the most comforting gesture, but it's the thought that counts. I give her a shaky smile back and try my best not to drop it as the glass cylinder hems me in.

* * *

(Besra Tamarisk, Male, District 7)

My platform rises, and after a moment of darkness I'm thrust into the arena. As my eyes adjust to the greyish light, I slow my breathing and try to concentrate. I'll grab the thing closest to me if it's useful enough; otherwise I run straight off. First things first, I have to see where I am.

Exhaling, I rub an eye as the scene comes into focus. The Cornucopia, not so shining under the cloudy light, is turned so its side faces me. The thing closest to my feet looks like some sort of miniature first-aid kit. Useful enough for me.

I check the tributes near me. Not my allies. Gale is in sight, near the mouth of the Cornucopia. I wave at him carefully, making sure he knows my general whereabouts before letting myself look at where I'll be running.

Encircling the tributes is a towering, crumbling structure I know I've seen in books before, but I can't think of its name. Behind me, after a long stretch of gravel, is a river, and behind that, a cliff.

On the cliff are the Great Pyramids.

And suddenly I realize the building surrounding us is the Coliseum. And I assume these aren't the only ones the Gamemakers recreated here. Symbols of societies that fell. Unlike Panem.

Before I get a moment longer to reflect on the structure of the arena, the gong sounds.

I pivot back toward the medical kit and sprint.

* * *

(Laurel Crumb, Female, District 5)

Nothing I do as my podium enters the arena can stop the rise of bile in my throat.

Powerless to slow my heartbeat, I take in my surroundings. We seem to be in a wide oval of gravel, the Cornucopia beckoning in its center. If I scoot to the edge of my plate and crane my neck a little, I can see Daysi standing across the circle. She beams her usual grin, so out-of-place yet strangely comforting, and inclines her head slightly behind her.

Does she mean she wants us to run in that direction? I guess so. I'm not sure if I can make it...

Well, I know I'm not going to make it anyways, even if I do get away from the Cornucopia. I've managed to bury it for a while; focus on my new friend and memories of my family. Like I'm five years old and the Games nothing more than a nightmare. But right here, right now, when the inevitable is staring me in the face... The truth is that I'm going to d-die. The question is when.

Hopefully, no time soon. So I can spend more time with the only person who's been able to make me forget I've been reaped. So my family won't have to watch it happen right away. S-so—it's selfish, but—so I can avoid the pain for as long as possible. Gosh, the pain... that's what I'm scared of most. Tributes have been burnt alive, ripped apart, tortured for hours. P-please, someone, whoever does it, just m-make it fast... I'm not asking much...

My heart turns to lead as the starting gong sounds.

For a few terrifying moments, my feet won't work, and I'm rooted to the starting plate and everyone is running and _why can't I move? _Then adrenaline stabs me like an arrow, and I fling myself forwards, ungainly legs carrying me as fast as I can go.

I must have blinked, or else I was frozen for longer than I'd thought, because Daysi's already nearly at the stone wall surrounding the circle. She was pretty fast in training, but—she knows I can't possibly match that speed, right?

Ignoring the bounty scattered around the Cornucopia, I huff past the opposite row of starting plates. Getting closer...

Something rips through my back like fire.

Unable to comprehend anything but the pain, I take a while to realize I'm sprawled on the ground. My vision is obscured by a crimson haze. Sticky gravel bites into my face. Wet, warm, red... it's blood. _My _blood.

_No... no... no! I'm going to—I'm going to—b-but—Mom! Dad! Cleon! Help me!_

Somewhere beyond the agony ravaging my nerves, a girl is screaming at the top of her lungs. I think it's me.

I try to discern fleeing voices amidst the chaos, hoping they'll give me some indication of where to drag myself, but it's hopeless. Just lifting an arm proves excruciating. The narrow view of the arena afforded to me by my half-closed eyelids isn't even enough to let me know if my ally has escaped. _Please, let her get away. Don't... come back for me..._

Footsteps. Close and unbearably loud. Someone's come to finish me off. _Oh gosh, no, not yet... please, not yet... but it hurts so much... C-Cleon..._

Another searing pain, this time sending spots of black across my vision. I'm rolled over on my side, every ragged fibre of my body wailing in protest. My throat aches from sobbing. A shadowy figure stands above me, clutching the knife they've yanked out of my back. I can't even tell who my killer is. I can only pray they'll have humanity enough not to torture me.

The figure flicks their wrist, driving a flash of silver deep into my heart, and my suffering is over.


	21. We Who Are About to Die

(Audrey Westfallin, Female, District 8)

By the end of the first minute in the arena, I've settled on a nice-looking pair of throwing knives straight ahead of me. The gong sounds, and I go sprinting for them. No one's going to stop me. Not now, not when I'm finally free from Eleanor and her loveless ideas for my future. Nothing's holding me back now, and I'll see to it that nothing ever will again.

A few do get in the way, though. The vacant boy from 11 crosses in front of me, going after some package of food, but I only have to slow down for a moment.

That moment's long enough for Christine to give him a sharp, leaping snap-kick to the side of the head. He falters, knees giving out in the little flash of unconsciousness, and after a hard elbow to his back, he falls to the ground. Him getting up gives Christine enough time to snatch the nearest weapon and return. He lands a punch to the side of her head, and a few pieces of gravel roll away from her sliding feet, but she regains her composure, feints a move, and stabs the knife into his chest. Ripping the weapon back out panting, she watches the Eleven fall to the ground convulsing.

Not going to be getting that knife the way I planned now, huh?

Veering to the side in my running before she can register my presence, I scan the area rapidly for other things I probably won't get elsewhere. There's a machete not too close to any of the other tributes, so I angle towards it.

Farther from the Cornucopia, to my right, comes a high-pitched shriek so loud I instinctively turn my head to see if I'm in danger, too. The youngest, smallest one with the red-blonde hair is falling backwards, a knife—with a different handle than the one I was after—protruding from her chest. As she faintly tries to grab at something that could help her back up, Clovis runs toward her with another knife, this one already bloodstained, to finish her off.

Making myself look away—the image is so horrible it's not hard to—I continue running so hard my feet already throb with pain, and the machete draws near enough I can slow.

I grab the handle at the same moment as my district partner.

My eyes flash up at Asher in an angry sort of fear, and after a moment's hesitation, he grins at me and lets go.

"Not my kind of weapon, anyway."

Panting too hard to respond, I just nod, take the thing, and turn around to run again.

I find myself a foot away from a charging Typhon.

Unable to keep myself from screaming, I stand paralyzed until somehow my body tumble-rolls away on its own. A loud rush of air leaves Asher's mouth as he gets the blunt of the charge, but I look away, scrambling back to my feet and trying to ignore the scratches the gravel has opened up.

Hands so sweaty I'm afraid I'll drop my cargo, I bolt again, straight for the outside of the odd building we're in. Just block out everything else, as usual. Even if they're screams, they're not important to you right now. Even if it's Asher yelling now… He was such an honest guy, too…

But survival's more important than some lower-class kid. Just focus on running.

My throat aching from the rapid intake of air, I try to push away all of the little pains, all of the distractions, and just make my feet thump the ground faster and faster.

I can't ignore the pain when a fist collides with the side of my skull.

Thrown off, I struggle to regain my balance as my running body tilts dangerously to one side. Though it's sure to slow me down a little, I take a chance thrusting my machete-holding arm behind me, and I feel it catch some cloth, but there's no cry of pain. I bring the weapon back in, and it only moves along with my fist as I continue running. Leaping over an abandoned starting plate, my feet touch down on gravel too shaky for my tastes, but I don't stumble much.

The one who's after me catches up, anyway, and seizes the back of my shirt.

Giving up on a plain retreat, I twist myself out of the pursuer's grip and turn to face him. Jendra doesn't have the look of business or determination in his eyes as the other Careers, but he's out to kill me nonetheless.

I slash out, but he blocks with his arms and doesn't take too much damage. I'm tired, but I'll have to fight harder if I want to win. Attack him like he's Eleanor, like he's the reason you've been stifled and kept away from the only one you really love. Kill him.

With a shout, I lash out again, but he dodges and punches me hard in the gut. Suddenly unable to breathe, I slash wildly and try to remember how to get air in. I hit something, but he hits me back, in the side of the head, and I'm sent staggering to the side. I'm only able to stop from falling because I stumble right into someone.

I straighten myself in a hurry, ready to slash, but the engaged girl from 12 isn't about to attack me when the Careers are still so close. She pushes me away and runs, and she's past one of the doorway-like structures when Jendra hits me again.

I spin, slashing, and he finally cries out in pain, but strange blotches are flashing around my vision, and I'm not sure which way I should be running right now.

He hits me in the back, and within a dizzy moment I'm pinned to the prickling gravel ground. I can't move my weapon, but he can't wrench it out of my grasp, either. Eventually he gives up and just stays there with a heavy foot on me.

I'll give you one tip, Jendra, stepping on someone isn't the best way to kill her…

I squirm, trying to figure out a way to throw him off or at least off-balance, and after a minute I finally make his foot slip. Summoning whatever energy is still left after all of this, I force myself out from under him, though I'm breathing too hard to get back to my feet just yet.

I roll away a few times before hearing the footsteps crunch towards me from both sides. After struggling to at least put some weight on my feet, I get my first glimpse of Clovis slashing at me.

And then I really can't breathe, not with the hole in my throat and the blood dripping into it.

No, I'm not supposed to die here. I'm supposed to be the Victor, and go home with enough money and power I can be in love with Garrett without anyone to tell me otherwise.

But… I'm still free… Not the way I wanted, and at such a horrible price, but I'm free…

My last breath wheezes out.

* * *

(Gale Blayley, District 9)

I'm almost at the mouth of the Cornucopia. It's dangerous, but we don't have our usual Careers and everything, and I could sure use that sword and a crate or two of food near it.

I can tell there's all sorts of chaos around me, and the screaming of all sorts bangs around my eardrums too hard. If I get out of this, I'll be lucky to hear the guitar, let alone still play it.

All of the killers seem occupied at the moment, and my path is pretty clear. Sam is actually ahead of me—though she has less body weight to drag her down—and she's sorting through a disorganized pile of weaponry madly. I swerve past her and reach out for the best-looking metal box of food.

Before I can touch it, the bad boy's hands are on it.

Don't remember his district, just his interview angle. Normally I'd ignore him and grab the next crate, but it's a couple of meters away, and the girl from 2 is starting to get a little too close.

So I lunge for the sword and slash at the bad boy's arms. He can't move them away in time, and the pain makes him drop the crate. I seize the cargo by the handle on its top, but the boy slugs me in the side of the head, and my grip starts to slide. He grabs at a corner of the box, but I tighten my fingers around the handle, jerk it out of his grasp, and bring it up and around to collide with his head. He goes down immediately, and for a second I'm scared I killed the guy, but he's still breathing.

Pivoting, I look for a good path out of here. Besra was near that side of the Cornucopia, and Lyel—ah! Lyel's grabbing a pickaxe by the Cornucopia's tail.

"Lyel!" I call as I start running towards him.

He flinches at first, but realizes it's me. "Besra went towards the river," he says, looking over his shoulder before determining the boy from 5 is more running away from Robin than for him.

"Let's go then!" I realize going towards Lyel landed me farther away from Besra and turn to go back.

The 2 girl is knifing the collapsed bad boy.

"Let's just go this way!" Lyel says, turning back towards the tail to go around.

"Yeah!"

We run for it, and our path is clear enough. The giant from 10 is dangerously close, but he's too busy picking up the wounded pregnant girl to notice us. We get around to the other side without anyone on our tail, and I catch sight of the river, but I can't see Besra. Well, I figure Lyel wasn't lying to me, so let's just see what happens.

Another few seconds of mad dashing, and we're past the stone of the building-thing.

"Guys!"

It takes me a second to catch sight of Besra stepping out from behind a tree closer to the river than the nearby forest.

"Hey!" I call back, looking over my shoulder to see that no one's pursuing us. Lyel and I slow down and jog to Besra, who's glad to see us alive.

I'm pretty glad to be alive, too, huh?

* * *

(Embreli Lueaz, Female, District 4)

After donning a heavy knapsack—the farthest thing I dared to run for—I run back for the starting plates. Not about to let my guard down, I'm still looking everywhere—where I need to go, who's around, who's after me. Jace from 12 is close, but he doesn't have a weapon, and he's bolting for the forest.

I'm shooting for the river myself. It has some growth around it to hide, and, well, District 4 people like to be around water. If I need to get away, I could build a little boat and sail to the ends of the arena. We'll see what happens.

I pass the border between the bloodbath area and the rest of the arena, but I don't slow my pace.

Another check over my shoulder shows me that Robin is running after me. Makes sense. She's the fastest of the Career pack, so she's the only one with a chance of catching up. And at this rate, it looks like she will.

I turn back around and try to up my pace, though I'm already flying over the gravel at a dangerous rate. I check the ground for any dips or bumps I could lead her to, but the ground seems flat as can be. I consider picking up a chunk of gravel or two to throw back at her, but I'm not confident I could keep my balance running at this rate.

—My foot slips.

I shout as it all rolls away, and in a blur of vertigo I'm rolling on the ground, scraping against every little pebble. I flail my arms out to stop myself, but I can't get back to my feet before Robin collapses over me, pinning my wrists and knees to the ground.

"Clovis!" she starts. A pause as she keeps me from wriggling away. "Christine? …Guys?"

Considering there's not much keeping her from doing me in herself since there are plenty of wicked-sharp rocks lying around, she must be calling on the others because she won't kill me.

"…If you don't want to kill, why join the Career pack?" I start, my voice about as gravelly as the ground.

Robin stays silent.

"Just because you're from a Career district? I am, too, and I'm not in that alliance. Who says you have to be?" I pause, trying suddenly to worm out again, but failing. "It won't do you much good. Even if they have supplies, they won't really trust you. And you can't trust them, either. Wouldn't it be better to do this more… honestly?"

Robin exhales. "I… I really would rather be around fewer people to distrust, but—"

"But what?" I interrupt, still not hearing another Career approach and feeling more hopeful because of it. "It won't do you good to be that much closer to people who will certainly kill you when it comes down to it. Go ahead, go on your own. Or… come with me."

"Come… with you…?"

"I didn't join the Career pack because I'm not going to murder innocent kids, and not because I'm weak. It may not be the most convincing case in the world, but… I think I sound like a pretty good ally."

Silence. And then there's a little shifting, and the blood starts to flow back into my hands and legs as Robin gets off me. I push myself up calmly, partially from weariness and partially from being sure fleeing is the worst thing I could do right now.

I blink and look Robin straight in the eye. "Allies, then? Your choice."

I hold out a hand to shake, and Robin looks down at it unsteadily.

"Robin! Duck!"

Bewildered, Robin spins around and ducks, and in alarm I do the same.

The throwing knife still lands in my eye.

The rest of the world seems to fade as all I can hear is my own screaming. I'm vaguely aware that my knees buckle, but the little scraping of the gravel on my ankles is nothing compared to the blood and fire and blackness from my right eye.

I'm not even sure who it is that finishes me off.


	22. Spread Out

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, everyone! It's great to know we do have a few more people interested than just ourselves and Axxi, ehe.

This chapter was written by Obiwanlivesforever, and the last chapter by me. Now that the Games are here, we'll be alternating chapters, so if you were curious...

* * *

(Sato Detrixen, Female, District 6)

I've cleared the stretch of land outside the walls and reached the nearby forest before I realize something's not right.

"Think we made it, Laurel!" I cheer under my breath, breaking through the first layer of branches. Although it's still too early to stop, I do slow my pace as I weave around tree trunks and shrubbery. "Laurel?"

I risk a glance over my shoulder. My friend's not there.

Bringing myself to a complete halt, I scan the area. No sign of her. Nothing but an eerie stillness, broken only by the gentle whispering of leaves.

"…Laurel?"

Oh, well. It doesn't mean anything's happened. She was never the fastest runner in training; she must still be making her way out of that weird stone building. Or maybe she got out through another exit and is coming around by a different route. Either way, she has to know which direction I've gone in. She saw me motion at the bloodbath. We'll run into each other soon enough.

Although… I couldn't bring myself to look back, but judging by the screams I'd tried to block out, not everybody made it out of there. I won't know for sure until I see the death toll, but…

But nothing. There's no proof that Laurel isn't safe. It's silly to drive myself crazy thinking of something that only _might_ have happened, right? I'll just keep going until I find somewhere to make camp, and before I know it, she'll come crashing through the foliage, red-faced and panting, just like always…

I won't let myself believe otherwise.

* * *

(Fawn Cobb, Female, District 7)

How long have I been running? The time's gone by just like my surroundings—in a blur. I'm nowhere near tired yet—people kinder to myself than I am would probably call me a good sprinter—but my head is swirling so violently from fear that I think I might collapse. Better slow down before I make myself nauseous. Nobody's on my tail, and I have enough problems already without emptying my lunch.

As the world comes back into focus, I get my first good glimpse of the arena. My initial impression is one of unease. Apart from the obvious reasons, it's also because it's too … empty. I'm in the middle of a vast field of gravel, with nothing to break the monotony but the Cornucopia behind me, a smudge of green trees far to my left, and some sort of buildings to my right. It's eerie. If I was attacked right now… regardless of how fast I may be able to go, I'd never reach shelter in time.

Attempting to steady myself, I take a quick look down at my wrists, then set off in the direction of the woods.

* * *

(Time Wescal, Male, District 10)

"We're coming up to some shelter, now."

Zee nods weakly before collapsing back against my shoulders. Taking care to be gentle, I tighten my grip on her legs and continue carrying her towards the upcoming structure. She cries out every so often, despite my efforts to make our progress smooth and steady, but I have to say she's faring remarkably well for having a knife in her calf.

It was the boy from District 1. I'd made a quick dash to the Cornucopia to grab whatever might be useful when Zeetra screamed my name. The Career had hit her with one knife and was reaching for another. Unsurprisingly, the sight of me charging between them with a decent-sized hatchet was enough to change his mind. He might be trained, but I had the better weapon, not to mention three years and quite a few pounds on him. Still, it was a close enough call, especially as my sole ally is now wounded. I just can't fathom how anyone could bring themselves to do such a thing, especially so soon, especially to _her_…

Well, I shouldn't be so surprised, because apparently someone in this arena can bring themselves to kill a twelve-year-old, too. In the brief moment I spent making sure the 1 wasn't following us, I saw Chervil on the ground. It was no more than a second's glance, but I don't think I'll ever forget the image, however long I have left to live. Her limp, fragile body, mouth half-opened in shock, eyes glazed over… She was so young. So afraid. I don't know what's more repulsive—that the Capitol calls this justice or that there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.

"T-Time?" Zeetra's nervous voice jolts me from my dark thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?" She peeks anxiously over my shoulder. "You look angry. It's scaring me. Please, stop."

"Oh." I try to relax my features, but even when I'm not dwelling on something as morbid as my district partner's untimely death, they remain in their standard thick-browed glare. "Well, I'll try. Here we are."

We've reached the first in a long row of dilapidated brick houses. It and its fellows stretch in a perpendicular line away from the river we've been following since the Cornucopia. Beyond them looms something a little too reminiscent of the Justice Building back home. There's not an adequate roof among the lot of them, and I doubt they contain much in the way of normal household fixtures and supplies, but it's definitely better than sleeping out in the open. The Career pack is sure to be out hunting come nightfall, and there's that three-boy alliance to worry about as well. I'm not sure whether they're out for blood, but it's the Hunger Games. I can never be too careful, especially with Zeetra to protect.

I consider setting Zee down while I scour the city block for mutts or other tributes, but decide it's too dangerous to leave her alone even for a moment. Instead, I ensure she's holding on tightly before taking up my hatchet. A cautious search of the area reveals nothing out of the ordinary. The empty buildings are certainly unsettling, but I'd be more concerned if someone else was here.

Once safely in a house—we choose one a little ways down the row, because if someone finds this place they'll probably start searching the first one—I set Zee down on a bedframe and examine her leg. I'm no first-aid genius, but I thought she was more likely to bleed out if the knife was gone, so it's still in there. Not to mention there wasn't really time to remove it safely while fleeing for our lives. It undoubtedly hurts the poor girl like heck, but it stopped us from leaving too noticeable a blood trail, and now we have two weapons.

"All right, now," I say, "I'm going to take it out. This'll sting, so, uh, close your eyes if it helps."

Zeetra complies and I quickly slide the knife out.

She seizes my hand with a high-pitched gasp, prompting me to rub it awkwardly for a few moments while her pain subsides. I then set to work ripping up part of my shirt for bandages. I'm not planning on going topless in front of the audience, but there's still my undergarment, and Zeetra's wellbeing should really come before my modesty anyway.

"We should probably get some disinfectant on that, too…" I mutter, displeased with the amount of dark crimson seeping through the coverings. "Sponsors?"

No silver parachute. Well, I can't exactly blame them. The Games can't have been on for more than an hour, and we haven't done anything too interesting for the viewers. I know my mentor isn't the type to withhold medicine from an injured girl, even if she's not his tribute, so it must be a lack of funds.

"Well… that'll come. We'll just have to wait." I finish tying the cloth around her calf and rise to my feet. "You rest for a while; I'll stand guard."

"I'm hungry," Zeetra moans. "I need to eat for the baby."

"I don't think there's any food in here, unfortunately," I respond, checking the bare cupboards in case they've somehow filled themselves. They haven't. "Maybe when you feel better we can look around for berries or something. Or we'll get a donation."

She nods, sniffling slightly, and attempts to shift herself into a more comfortable position. The smile I shoot her —if it can be called that—obviously isn't much reassurance. Resignedly, I take up watch outside, glad to be free of the cramped space and wishing I could be just as rid of this helplessness to make anything better.

* * *

(Darrel Jutters, Male, District 5)

I made it out of the bloodbath all right. Didn't go for any of the supplies—sure, I'm fast, but I'm not stupid enough to think I could outrun a throwing knife. There was one shaky moment when the girl from 1 came after me, but I guess she wasn't interested. Must not have been, since I'm still breathing.

Pausing in my flight, I gulp in some air, all at once overwhelmingly grateful for that fact. I… I really made it, didn't I? I'm still here, still in the Game. Not done for yet.

Guess there's no harm now in admitting I was pretty scared in the launch room. And, well, maybe a bit before that. But now that I'm in this for real? I'm not sure. There's still fear, of course, but having come this far without a knife in my back gives me a stirring of… not exactly hope, but… purpose. I know my chances aren't great, but at least I'm a little bit closer to possibly winning this thing now.

Not that it would be easy. Even more daunting than the idea of fighting for my life is the thought of coming home a Victor while my cousin came home in a coffin. It's been two years, but I can still see the look on Trent's face when poor Aaron ran into those Careers. I don't know if winning would make things better or worse. On the one hand, we'd have years left to clean up this mess between us. On the other, if I make it through while his idol couldn't…

A resonant _boom _thrusts me back to the present. I glance nervously around the clearing, hoping I haven't been detected, but nobody seems to have reached this part of the forest yet. Calming, I listen as the cannons of this year's bloodbath victims rip apart the sky. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

The subsequent silence makes it feel like a solemn moment, but selfishly all I can think is that it could have been me. _Might be, soon enough._

But in the meantime, I still have a chance of getting home. Unlike Aaron, unlike those seven people. I don't know at this point what that might bring, but I do know I'm not going to waste it.

Better keep moving on.


	23. Strategies Forming

Author's Note: Haha, so the chapter where I thanked people for reviews didn't get reviewed... You're lucky I like irony so much. ;)

Please review this one, ne?

* * *

(Clovis Noken, Male, District 1)

The cannons tick off our kill list as I finish cleaning off my last knife. Just seven kills. Pretty pathetic, but considering I'm the only real Career and, of course, the rest are idiots, it makes sense enough. I got four of the kills myself. Christine got the airheaded boy and the tall one from 6. And that's from someone who apparently still looks down on killing.

But unfortunately some of us seem to really feel that way. Jendra doesn't want to kill, and Robin…

I look over at my district partner. She's staring out at the clouds, slowly twirling her bracelet around her wrist. Unlike the others, she hasn't picked out a weapon yet. She's just been out of it. Thinking. I don't like it.

"Hey, Robin." I put my knife in my belt as she turns her head towards me. "What exactly happened with you and that dead girl?"

She stops playing with her bracelet and blinks slowly. "I restrained her until someone with a weapon could come along."

"Looked to me like you restrained her until she talked you out of it."

By now some of the others are looking at us uncomfortably, like something's about to explode. I almost hope it does, just so I have one less idiot to deal with. But I can't be too hasty to kill these guys, or we'll lose sponsors and all that junk.

Robin stiffens a little bit, but there's no alarm in her eyes. "She was about to buck me off. I had to do something to keep her there," she says, giving each word its space.

"You convinced her awfully easily," I point out.

She closes her eyes for a second and then meets my gaze. "I made her think she was convincing me."

"Hmph." I'm still not pleased, but there's not much evidence in my favour. I guess I'll leave her alone until she does something else stupid.

"Oh, hey, Robin," calls Typhon from one of the weapon piles. "Did you want one of the swords or what?"

She looks over her shoulder at him, noting the trident in his hand. "Swords that are too heavy for you probably aren't going to work for me, sorry. Are there any slings?"

We have every weapon in the book, and the girl wants a slingshot. Frick.

Typhon checks that pile and, coming up blank, walks over to the other. Jendra, pickaxe over his shoulder, scoots back so the Four can dig through.

"No, no slings. Uh… How about a crossbow?"

"Crossbows aren't that much like slingshots," Jendra comments with a nervous smile.

Typhon grins back. "Well, they're closer than maces."

Two fairly friendly boys. Better make sure they don't get closer to each other than the rest of us, if I can help it.

Ugh. It might at least be manipulation, but I still hate dealing with people. At the same time, I'm not about to let Christine take over the lead. It'd be a lot less trouble, but I hate being controlled. It's just going to be a no-win situation the whole time here.

But I knew that when I was forced to volunteer. I knew that when I promised Alia to win. No matter what crap I have to put myself through, I'm going home.

* * *

(Thalia Hawkmoon, Female, District 12)

I'm currently up in a tree, resting while keeping my ears open for any signs of others. I'm sure plenty of tributes are going to be coming here. There's another forest on the other end of the arena, but between the seventeen tributes left, there's no way I'll be the only one here. Especially when the other parts of the arena aren't going to be providing any food.

Otherwise, I'm fairly safe. I won't dehydrate just yet since I got a pack of water bottles from the Cornucopia. That's all I made off with, unfortunately, but I'm still not too bad off. I'm good enough at combat without a weapon, and I can scrounge up a knife or spear from the environment without a problem, anyway. It would have been nice to snag some food, but I wasn't lucky enough to be placed on a platform near some. That's all right, since I ended up on the platform closest to this forest. My luck evens out.

So, not doing too bad for the first half hour or so. If the rest of the Games were this easy, I wouldn't have to be so worried about getting back home to Xavier… But it is, and I am.

Let's just put together a knife or two and hope it all works out.

* * *

(Bellanca Groven, Female, District 3)

I don't let myself rest until I've reached the inside of the building. From there, I do a brief check for nearby traps or tributes before sliding back against the wall and trying to somehow catch my breath.

Honestly, I'm not sure how I was even able to come this far. I can run quickly, but my endurance isn't great. Yet I'm fairly close to what seems to be the edge of the arena. I obviously can't see it from inside this building, and I couldn't see it from the starting plate, but there seems to be some sort of solid grey wall fencing us in. Maybe I'll check it out later.

Definitely not for a while, though. I'll be staying here, at least until I have the energy to stand again. It seems safe enough. This T-shaped building was the only structure around with some sort of roof—actually, it looked like what was once a second floor, but still—and there's quite a bit of junk around. It could all be booby-trapped, but if it's not, I'll just stick around and make some traps myself. Some of the lights are on, so there have to be some energy sources around—hopefully they're accessible from the arena—and I could make something useful out of that. I'm cautiously optimistic about this place.

Still breathing hard, I unclutch the water canteen from my chest and dare to take a sip. This and a stretch of wire were the only things I got out of the bloodbath. There was a good sword not that far away, but it would be hard enough to carry around, let alone sprint away with. I'll have to do with just this. And I have no idea how I'll be getting more water after this. The river is hazy but visible from the front entryway, but I'm not going near it. It would be too easy to fall in and drown, and there wouldn't be enough cover—exempting the forest, though it doesn't border the river until it crooks away from here. Maybe I can try digging. I'll probably want to set some pitfall traps if possible, anyway. I'll have to see how far the gravel goes and how hard the ground underneath is.

But not now. I'm too tired from the run still, and at the risk of thinking too much and getting depressed, I'll have to check out this floor before I can shut my eyes and close out the world for a little while. And then I'll start setting a few traps.

Until then, let's keep an eye out and rehydrate.

* * *

(Jace Maytra, Male, District 12)

I ended up going in the same direction as my district partner. We're not allies, and I'm not planning to run into her, but she's probably the tribute least likely to kill me right now. I hope. She's not exactly the tearful, weak girl from her interview, but I don't think she'd come after me immediately. But I'm usually wrong…

I'm still slipping through the trees trying to keep my breathing quiet when I notice something odd.

There have been several birds wheeling around the sky, but this one comes out of nowhere and dives down fast. And it's not just paranoia that makes me realize it's coming towards me. The only other thing I can tell from here is that it's large and its beak is silver.

Mutts already? We just got out of the bloodbath! Even with the Capitol as sick as it is, they're usually satisfied enough with that to leave us be for a few hours. Unless they're trying to punish me for my interview—oh, I knew it! Why did I do something so stupid, and _why am I thinking about this when that thing's coming straight for me_?

I run through the trees though I'm sure the mutt could dart through them better than me. What am I supposed to do, though? It's after me, and I'm running, and oh, gosh, I have no idea what I'm doing. Just run!

I still haven't recovered from getting over here, so I'm not running at my best. And I keep running into branches, because for some reason I feel like it's a good idea to keep looking over my shoulder at the bird. It just keeps getting closer and more detailed. The sharp, silver beak serrated on both sides, the odd lines of silver stretching across its back, its yellowish wings that seem too huge to possibly navigate all of the tight spaces they're getting through. But the Capitol sent it to kill me, and it's going to even if it has to pass straight through all of these trees.

Branches snap in my face, at my feet, into my socks, and every little wobble in the grass threatens to trip me as I rush blindly forward. Oh, no, there's going to be another tribute around here, and… Oh, forget it! I'm going to die either way, and I just need to keep running.

Despite the loudness of my breathing and pulse in my ears, I start to hear the wings of the half-mechanical mutt behind me. No, not now! Please not now, not with that horrible beak, just not now, I don't want to die…

I stumble over a root but crash into a bush before I can quite hit the ground. Gasping in terror, I get back up and break into a run again, swearing I feel the cold tip of the beak in my back before I can gain enough speed. Not wanting to see it so close, I stop daring to look over my shoulder and just run, run, run.

I don't think I can go much longer… I'm going to die… Oh no, I'm going to die…

"You can stop running now."

The sudden voice makes me yelp and start, and I end up losing my footing and tumbling onto the grass.

Someone's found me, someone's found me, and the bird's about to get me, and that was probably the bird anyway in a trap from the Gamemakers, and…

"Whoops!" Light footsteps as I struggle to get back up. "Didn't mean to trip you up," she giggles.

Knowing there's nowhere for me to run at this point, I just sit up quivering and try to identify the tribute in front of me. I can't remember her name. She must be one with a high training score, though, since the bird's skewered on the scythe in her hand.

She holds a hand out to help me up. "Hi. I'm Sam. You're Jace. I got the bird. We should be allies."

"Um…" I take Sam's hand to get up but let it go as soon as I can. That's not too soon, seeing as I think I twisted my ankle. There's no running now, ohh…

"Uh, did you hear me?" She perks her head to one side. "We should be allies. It'll be more fun."

"Um…" I try to put weight on my foot again and wince. "I don't… I don't think that's too good an idea…"

Confused, she replies, "But I said it'll be fun."

"But it's not that safe." And I can't trust you enough. You just killed a crazy mutation, and you could definitely kill me, especially now, and… I guess you haven't killed me yet, but…

I just faced certain death-by-knife-beak! I can't think right now, and I just shouldn't be making any big decisions.

"No," she replies, "it's a lot safer, and we'll probably get more donations and stuff. And it'll be _fun_." She grins, leaning her upper half towards me as she holds her weapon behind her back.

"Um…" What am I supposed to say? If I say no, she'll probably kill me on the spot, anyway… But if I say yes, she'll kill me when I'm not expecting it… But… Oh, I don't know.

Convinced that it's a horrible mistake, I swallow and say, "O-okay. Allies, then."


	24. At the End of the Day

A/N from Obiwanlivesforever: Yes, the title is a Les Mis reference. I decided I'd start naming the titles after songs (or snippets of songs) that I like and which fit with what happens in the chapter. Most of them probably won't be this obvious.

Thanks for reading, and please do review!

* * *

(Fawn Cobb, Female, District 7)

By the time the sunset gilds the horizon, the clearing around me is littered with broken twigs. Drawing my latest projectile back to eye level, I adjust my aim and, once I've judged it to be adequate, let it fly. The stick meets its target—a low-hanging tree branch—with a satisfying clunk.

I can't count the number of times I've done this to clear my head. At least five in the past week. Back home, it was with a knife—the gouges in the wall of our backyard shed can attest to that—but I've had to resort to more creative means recently. Since I wasn't going to risk the bloodshed getting anything at the Cornucopia, that means I'm left with nothing but sticks to hurl at whatever I see fit. It's not much, and it's certainly not a testament to my mental stability, but I'm past giving a crap. The Capitol played their hand, and I'll cope with it however I can.

Right now, though, it's time to wrap up. The sun's been getting lower with every throw, and at the moment I can hardly discern one layer of foliage from another. I slip a few of the sticks into my belt—who knows how soon I might have to leave this area—and burrow into the underbrush. It might be more sensible to shelter in a tree, but one look at the dizzying height and spindly branches defeats my rationality. My climbing skills in training were laughable, and I'd most likely fall out in my sleep.

_Though whether or not I'll get any in this place is the real question, _I muse darkly before shutting my eyes.

It's not a moment before they snap open again.

Someone's here.

* * *

(Lyel Thallium, Male, District 3)

Gale's arm thumps into my chest as I take another weary step forwards. The three of us freeze as one. I jerk my head up to see Gale's expression, hoping it's nothing bad. The look on his face isn't worried, but it isn't promising, either.

"What—"

"Shh." He puts a finger to his lips and, agonizingly slowly, draws our pickaxe out of his belt. I follow his line of sight towards a clump of bushes grouped together at the edge of a nearby clearing. Squinting a bit, I can just make out what might be a darker shape in the middle of them. That's not another person, is it...?

Whatever it is doesn't budge, and neither do we. Every muscle in my body tenses as the moment drags on. I-is this really what I prepared for in training? I'd felt fairly capable when it was just dummies and cut-outs, but the silence and the darkness and the long hours of running sharply remind me of just how real this is.

It seems like an eternity before Gale finally takes another step forward, poised to spring. The shape bolts upright—in the dim light I can tell it's vaguely female—and darts away through the trees. She's gone before I can blink.

Regardless, it's a few moments before any of us dares to breathe again.

Gale straightens out and brushes back some of his hair, the hand holding the pickaxe dropping back to his side. He turns back to us with a relaxed grin that I—and I doubt Besra—can quite match.

"Nothing to worry about," he reassures us. "She won't be coming back here for a while, and in the meantime we've got a great campsite."

The two of us just nod and let him lead us into the clearing. I have to admit it's a pretty good place to rest for the night. There's plenty of cover around the edges—though we'll have to hide ourselves better than the latest occupant—and a great deal of conveniently snapped sticks for the fire. Not that it would be wise to start one now that the careers will be hunting soon, but, uh... well, Besra's the brains of this group. He'll figure something out.

I hand the case I've been carrying to Gale. He takes it with an amicable smile, not seeming to notice the nervous accumulation of sweat around the handle.

My ally wrenches it open and we gather around to examine our inventory. It's optimistic. Several packages of dried fruit and jerky, a couple apples, a matchbox and a full canteen of water have been stuffed into the metal container. That should probably last us a few days, at least long enough until our mentors have accumulated enough money for more.

"Looks great," says Gale approvingly, slapping me on the back. "Thanks for carrying that for me. You haven't been too useless so far, huh, kid?"

"Uhm..." My initial instinct is to shrink, but I remember his teasing back in training. "That was a joke, right?"

Gale chuckles again. "Yeah. You're too sensitive, man."

Maybe ten more minutes of unpacking supplies and distributing rations pass by as the sky fades from blazing sunset to a deep velvet. There's not much conversation. The small selection of topics we had to discuss in training has dwindled to even fewer here—I doubt the Capitol would be too pleased with Gale's and Besra's chitchat about whatever Panem used to be. It's fine with me. Even back home I was never much of a social butterfly, and from what I know of him, I doubt Besra was, either.

Predictably, it's Gale who breaks the silence.

"So..." he muses, stretching out against a tree trunk after finishing the last bite of his apple, "who d'you think that was we scared out of here?"

Besra blinks in surprise. "Does it matter?"

"I dunno." Gale shrugs. "Nothing much else to talk about, is there? And we might as well start going over who could be left in the Game. We're bound to run into one of them sooner or later, anyway."

"It might have been one of our district partners," Besra responds, a little too swiftly for his usual awkward demeanor. "If they're still... you know."

Is he worried that Gale might have hurt the figure if she hadn't left so quickly? I guess it's possible, but... I dunno. He's a nice guy—he did invite us into the alliance, after all, even though we don't have that much to offer—and it feels pretty natural to trust someone like him. I know we probably won't be lucky enough not to have to fight anyone, but it's hard to imagine any of us going on the offensive so soon.

"Could have been," Gale agrees unconcernedly. "I think mine made it out of there; she's pretty fast, but I guess we'll have to wait to know for—"

The solemn thunder of Panem's anthem drowns out his words. So this is it—our first broadcast of the dead. A strange mixture of revulsion and gratitude stabs through me at the thought. I'm relieved just to have gotten this far, though I'd certainly like to be a bit closer to getting home than this. Still, I can't help a twinge of sadness for those who won't even get that opportunity. At least I didn't have to see many of their gruesome deaths.

The first to appear in the sky is the girl from District Four. Good news and bad news—that means my district partner's still alive, but so are most of the so-called Careers. Next come the scared girl from 5, the guy from 6—Gale gives a little wince; wasn't he right there when the guy got stabbed?—both from 8, the twelve-year-old girl from 10, and finally the 11 boy. The Panem seal reappears to conclude this unpleasant roster, then disappears along with the music.

"Seventeen left, then," Gale reports eventually.

"Technically fourteen, not counting us," nitpicks Besra.

"Aw, shut it." Gale reaches over to smack him, but anyone can tell even he's been subdued slightly by the moment. Settling back against his tree trunk, he looks pensively up at the canopy. "That means that... Who's all still in it? The Careers, that big fellow from ten, Sam, uh..."

"How about we get some sleep," I venture, "and worry about this in the morning?"

Gale yawns gratefully. "Sounds like a plan. Lyel and I'll sleep, and I guess that leaves you to be on first watch, huh, Besra?"

He sighs peevishly but doesn't argue.

I hit the ground before he can change his mind and let the stress and exhaustion of the day wash over me. It's wonderfully tempting—but not too easy—to succumb to sleep. Everything that's happened makes this morning's hovercraft ride seem decades ago. I don't think I've ever run so far, thought so much, or been so afraid all in such a short period of time. I doubt I've ever wished for a decent bed this much before, either.

Trying to push aside the brief pain in my back, I roll over a tree root and hope I'll nod off soon.

* * *

(Jendra Reeseburn, Male, District 2)

It took a while, but we finally agreed on a sleeping arrangement that almost everyone felt comfortable with. Although we're not stupid enough to say it in so many words, it's obvious that none of us trust Clovis. I doubt he'd stab anyone in the back this early on—well, I seriously hope not—but there's no telling what else he might get up to. Add to that the facts that Christine vehemently refused to sleep anywhere near Typhon and Robin insisted on staying on the fringes of the group, and it took at least ten minutes of bickering to sort ourselves out. Now, at last, they've all managed to drift off, leaving me to keep watch over the bleak expanse around the Cornucopia.

Pacing from one nondescript end of the building to the other, I let my gaze wander to the sky overhead. No stars; just dark emptiness. Kind of like how I feel now.

It's surreal. When I first stood on that stage and realized nobody was going to take my place, I must have experienced every imaginable emotion within five seconds. Fear, desperation, mainly shock. It all kind of numbed during training, as if in anticipation that I'd go back to feeling more than I could handle in the arena.

But so far, I haven't felt any real change; no sudden burst of panic or terror. Maybe that's more frightening than anything. Maybe I'm so confused and conflicted that if any of it seemed real, I'd lose it completely.

Because I have a _lot _to feel conflicted over. I basically killed someone today. Sure, I wasn't the one to slit Audrey's throat, but if I hadn't tackled her, she might have gotten away. I went through the same motions I used to every time I'd play-tussle with Rerkan and Mika back home, and this time they ended my opponent's life. Not in self-defence, not through any form of protection. Just because the Capitol decided I'm the one who plays the role of killer this year.

Starting to feel a lot guiltier than is comfortable, I try to distract myself by looking back over my sleeping companions. It provides no reprieve from these thoughts; just a different kind of discomfort. While I can't really claim to be much better than them, I'm at least _trying _not to kill. As for the rest of them... Clovis sure didn't hesitate in sinking his knives into the other tributes, and Christine, for all her self-righteous talk, didn't either. Even now, deep in slumber, they remind me enough of the Career tributes back home to send chills over my skin. I guess there's no shame in admitting to myself that they terrify me.

I wonder how Robin and Typhon are coping? The former's been even more aloof than usual today. Whatever she told Clovis, it's pretty clear that she didn't want to kill that poor girl. And, despite what he did to the guy from 8, there's something... genuine about Typhon that's not present in the other Careers. Not to me, at least. Neither of them wants to be in this, either.

I sigh, leaning against the cold metal of the Cornucopia. There's no logical point in thinking too deeply about all this, but I can't exactly help myself, not when there's nothing around to distract me. I have no idea how long we have until daylight, but it can't be short enough.

Wishing futilely that I was anywhere else but here, I take up my pickaxe and resume the long, slow trek around my allies.


	25. Thinking About You

Author's Note: This chapter is brought to you by Obiwanlivesforever.

* * *

(Samantha Ying, Female, District 9)

In the time that's passed since I met up with Jace, we've trudged our way through to the very edge of the mini-forest-thingy we met up in. Allying with me seems to have exhausted all of his social skills, since he made it very clear that he wanted to get as far away from the rest of the competition as possible. I guess he's got a point – okay, of course he does – but he doesn't seem too excited about staying around me, either.

"Phew!" I exclaim, disentangling myself from the last bit of foliage and plopping down on the ground. It's hard to make out anything in the darkness, but there seems to be a bit of an open stretch in front of us, interrupted sharply by some tall, solid barrier. The welcome tinkling of a river – not to mention my aching feet – persuades me to stop here. "I'm beat. Let's stay here for the night."

"Keep your voice down!" hisses Jace, just now appearing out of the bushes. "And get back under cover. Anyone will be able to see you!"

"Right, because it's _so_ light out." I roll my eyes before remembering he probably can't see them. "C'mon, we must be at the very edge of the arena. Nobody's around for miles."

"Yeah, but if we made it this far, who's to say somebody else couldn't?"

"I don't know, the fact that we've been walking for-freaking-ever?"

He's either too frustrated or too slow to come up with a decent retort. "Anyone else could have-"

"What was the point of leaving, then? To give us a chance to stretch our legs? Because I can tell you, mine are plenty-"

Jace sighs. "Forget it. I just don't want our position given away."

"Seriously, there's no one here but the two of us."

"Oh, joy."

That's pretty much the extent of our interaction. Him freaking out, me trying to talk sense into him, both of us bickering until he washes his hands of the whole mess. Normally I'd put a little more effort into lightening him up, but now it's starting to grate on my nerves. What with being tired and hungry and, oh yeah, having _saved his life,_ I think I've earned the right to pout a little.

A deliberate, uncomfortable silence falls over us as we investigate the area, Jace taking special care to not so much as trip over a pebble. As I suspected, the ground soon melts into a river, its current lapping away at the gravelly shore and the day's worth of grime on our hands. The cool water and a few raspberries make a passable meal. Unimpressed by my last-ditch attempt to cheer him up using berry juice as face paint, Jace retreats into the forest and curls up beneath a bush.

Guess this means I'm on first watch, then?

I decide to take my chances under the stars. Despite what someone stubbornly decides to believe, I really don't think anyone else has followed us so far. And if they have, well, I've already proven I can use this scythe. Which gives him even_less_ of an excuse to be so paranoid. Doesn't he have every reason to trust me? If I was going to stab him in the back, I would have let the bird-mutt do it for me. But I sure took care of it...

Satisfied with this thought, I lie down, fingers curled tightly around our sole weapon and eyes glued to the back of my only companion.

* * *

(Thalia Hawkmoon, Female, District 12)

I wake up, which is surprising, since I didn't think I'd fallen asleep.

What's happened? It's not normal for me to be jerked awake so suddenly, unless I've had the recurring nightmare about being reaped alongside Xavier. But the racing heartbeat and lingering sense of dread which usually accompany that dream are absent. The back of my mind, in fact, is strangely calm.

I shift on my perch, scrutinizing my surroundings. Nothing seems out-of-the-ordinary, apart from the obvious fact that I'm sleeping on a tree branch and not in my bed. Same inky black sky, slightly obscured by the forest canopy. Same gentle whispering of leaves. Same makeshift sword looped to my belt.

Maybe it was a cannon? If that were the case, you'd think the hovercraft would be here by now...

...Unless the killer hasn't left.

Suddenly alert, I spring down to the ground.

No tribute comes charging out of the shadows. Keeping my sword raised warningly, I rotate in all directions, keen eyes scanning for any hint of movement. The ebony mass of trees glares back, refusing to divulge its secrets. Nothing behind me ... nothing to the right ... nor to the left ... I continue pacing soundlessly, back and forth in this tight little circle...

The crack of a twig betrays someone's presence. I pivot at once, my sword flying upwards to meet my assailant's.

It all happens so swiftly – their attack, the near-collision of our bodies, the startling effortlessness with which my blade glides through their throat – that I don't even have time to register whether the figure is male or female before they're on the ground. Curiously unwinded by our struggle, I peer down at them. It's strange. I always figured death would be a gruesome thing, but here they lie, white and unmoving, hardly even human. Hardly something to pity-

The next one is upon me with an animalistic yell. A hand fastens itself around my throat, but my reflexes are not hindered by the pain. Easily, far too easily, I slice through the arm, sending several pounds of flesh, muscle and bone spinning to the ground. It's followed by my enemy's body, a neat gash spanning their abdomen.

I'm not fooled into complacency. There's no rest for me as they come again and again, innumerable tributes pouring from between the trees. The clearing is littered with their bodies, their blood stains everything, and it doesn't matter; none of it matters, because each one down is another tribute closer to home, closer to Xavier, and I must have almost won by now, because I'm up to my knees in red...

Cold night air is sucked into my lungs. My eyes open to softer, realer darkness, mercifully free of scarlet.

I simply lie there for a while, panting and shuddering, as the nightmare world loosens its hold. Reality comes back to me bit by bit. I never left the tree in the first place. I'm still on my branch, the bark digging uncomfortably into my skin, and that's not a sword in my hand, but a wooden knife fashioned from a stick... of course it is ... I was never able to master swordplay in the training center, after all, was I?

Around the time I figure this out, it occurs to me, in a flash of anxiety more direct than my dream terrors, how much danger I'm putting myself in at the moment. Not only is my noise bound to attract tributes, but I can't be presenting a very pretty picture to the sponsors, half-crying as I gasp and flounder like a fish. I swear internally. The vulnerable act I played up at the interviews will have gone completely to waste if I keep it up in the arena.

But it was all so real ... so vivid ...

_Pull yourself together, _a voice snaps firmly in my mind._Is this how you want Xavier and Joy and Skylar to see you? You could die tomorrow and this would be their last memory of you._

That's right.I'd never forgive myself if I caused my family more pain than necessary. I'm already building a wall against overt emotion, against the fear that could prevent me from coming home. All I need to do now is make it stronger.

Attempting to calm myself, I straighten up and grope around for the pack of water bottles I know is hanging on one of the nearby branches. My fingers are still shaking, though, and it falls to the forest floor below.

_That's all right. Get a hold of yourself. Go down and get them. Show everyone you can put yourself back on your feet._

After waiting to be absolutely sure that the resulting crash didn't alert anyone to my presence, I shinny down the trunk to retrieve them. Fortunately for me, the bottles caught in the bushes as they fell, so that none of them has broken open. See, Tally? Everything's fine. Grateful for small blessings, I down about half of one in a single gulp and return to my branch.

Before too long, however, I'm forced to accept that getting back to sleep might not be so easy. Images from my nightmare replay themselves every time I close my eyes. Worse than the bloodshed itself is the ease that accompanied it. It was an eerie sensation, to let my limbs move of their own accord, hacking and slashing with neither hesitation nor remorse.

I never fooled myself once in training. I knew the whole time that I would, physically, be able to kill someone. My skill with the bow proved that, even if my deliberately low score didn't. But when it comes to the psychological side of it all ... will I be able to send an arrow into a skull, just like that, with as little feeling or restraint as in the nightmare?

_Absolutely, _I resolve. _If they were attacking me first._

I know, deep down, that not everyone will, though. The lack of any real Careers in this year's Games means that letting the competition pick each other off is not an option. The pack will kill, undoubtedly, but not enough to make hiding and waiting a viable path to victory. Sooner or later, the rest of us will have to become hunters as well. And I will. For Xavier and for myself.

I tighten my grip on my knife and hope that, when that time comes, I won't go so far as to become the Thalia of the dream.


	26. Still Trying to Figure It Out

(Sato Detrixen, Female, District 6)

I wake up to some sort of flower tickling my nose. Soft shafts of sunlight are bathing my nest in a warm pool of light. Blinking and yawning, I stretch upright to spy a whole cluster of the purple blossoms dangling over my head. Not sure what kind they are. That's funny, since I almost always know these things. Maybe scabosias? Cornflowers?

Guess it doesn't really matter much. I'm just glad they're here to brighten up my morning, is all!

A wide grin reflecting my spirits, I pluck a few of the blooms, slip them in my hair, and make my way through the underbrush to go wake up Laurel.

Oh, didn't you know? Surprise! She survived the bloodbath after all, just like I thought she would. Guess I was just a little too fast in running away, but it's not like I abandoned her or anything. No, she just made her merry way around that big starting building, taking care not to run into anyone else, until we finally bumped into each other last night. Neither of us had managed to pick up any supplies, but we're doing all right. Nobody's come across us yet, we've found a nice little clearing with plenty of edible plants, and, of course, we have each other.

That's probably the most important thing. Back home, I was always with company, whether my sister, little step-brother, or friends. I don't even want to imagine what it'd be like to be completely alone, without someone chattering in my ear—well, in this case, someone whose ears I can chatter into. Think I'd go crazy!

Laurel wakes up right when I call her. You wouldn't think she'd take kindly to being jerked out of dreamland, seeing as she did a lot more running around than I did yesterday, but she seems pretty chipper.

"Morning, sleepyhead!" I say brightly, sticking another flower into the end of her braid. "Have a nice sleep?"

Without waiting for a response, I plow on: "I'll go get us some breakfast; you muss up our nests so it doesn't look like anyone's been sleeping there. Come get me if you see anyone. 'Kay?"

She nods in reply and gets right to it. I meander over to the surrounding bushes and start plucking off every ripe berry in sight.

A few minutes pass before I hear a sharp rustling to my left. Squinting, I can just make out the shape of a rabbit a few trees over. My stomach squirms at the thought of killing it, but I suppose if I set up some traps, it won't really be my fault, will it? After all, if I don't see it, it's easier to pretend it didn't happen. It'd just be like rabbits grow on trees or something. Ha! Imagine that!

Some sturdy vines serve as excellent nooses. I bushwhack a little further into the woods, setting them up a suitable distance away, then return to the glade with my berry cache. Laurel's apparently finished her job and is standing where I left her, awaiting my next instruction.

"I've set up some traps," I announce. "Why don't we gather some firewood in case they catch something?"

The area around our clearing is littered with fallen twigs and bits of birch bark. Perfect. I carry an armful back to our beds, only to find that Laurel hasn't done a very good job of disguising them. Oh, well. As I kneel down to do it myself, something out-of-place catches my eye. A splotch of purple, lying on the leaves where Laurel slept.

I lean closer. It's the flower I gave her.

"Silly thing!" I trill, spinning around and returning it to its proper place. "Don't drop it again, okay?"

She nods, smiling apologetically. I shake my head and get back to work.

Funny, isn't it, how people can overlook the most beautiful things in life? Just because we're in a difficult situation doesn't mean we have to be miserable about it. It's still possible to be optimistic and sensible about survival at the same time. The way I see it, they go hand-in-hand. Let yourself be overcome by all the horrible, _horrible _things happening around you—like the bloodbath and last night's death toll and I don't know what else—and you don't have a chance of making it through. Keep your head up, focus on the positive, and you just might.

Take those flowers, for example. I don't think I saw them at all when I went to bed last night. Too dark and depressing to catch a glimpse of them at all. But in the light of a brand new day, they're everywhere!

I scatter a few more over Laurel's hair just to prove my point.

* * *

(Typhon Undine, Male, District 4)

"What a clever plan_,_" jeers Christine airily. "Let the grunting troll lead the pack; leave the one with actual brains to stand guard. I don't know _how_ you think this up; it simply boggles the mind."

"I just didn't want you to overexert yourself," Clovis mutters in a low and deadly voice. "You'll need your beauty rest after your two kills yesterday."

The Two scoffs. "Save your pity. I'm going and that's final."

Robin rolls her eyes. Jendra lingers off to the side, looking nervous and confused. I just lean back against the Cornucopia and sigh. Our two 'leaders' have been at it all morning, arguing over who has to guard the supplies while the rest of us search for tributes. It's obvious that Clovis is itching to get something done after last night's shut-eye. He wasn't too happy with it, but the rest of us managed to overrule him. Now, though, he's not at all willing to back down, both in this and in his assertion that Christine should be the one to stay behind.

"Guys," I put in for the fourth or fifth time, "pretty wild theory here, but what if one of _us _stays behind and you both go on the hunt?"

Predictably, this ignites rage on both their faces. Christine protests that she's not about to work alongside an "unrepentant murderer," while all of Clovis' anger is channelled into a single, mutinous glare.

I raise my hands in mock surrender. "Sorry, sorry. I'm just saying, teamwork might work better than tearing out each other's throats." Then, because I can't resist a little dark humor, "At this point in the Games, of course."

For a split second, I think it's worked. Then they're back at it quicker than a pair of sharks following a blood trail.

It's not that I'm particularly eager to go hunting. Yesterday had more than enough violence for a lifetime, thank you very much. I'm just not a fan of quarrels, particularly in a group that's already such a time bomb. Not to mention that everyone, sponsors and other tributes included—and there's some pretty fierce competition among the latter—can see exactly how much we suck at working together. You want to bite each other's heads off; wait until the pack splits up. Until then, can't we at least attempt to get along?

Refusing to allow this to get the better of me, I've just about tuned them out when there's a scuffling beside me. Unnoticed by either of the two adversaries, Robin has cleared aside some supplies and planted herself firmly in the mouth of the Cornucopia.

"All done?" she snaps quietly but firmly, drawing our leaders' attention. "Because I think I'll be staying, if you'd like to leave any time soon."

She places her crossbow on the ground as if to reassert herself.

Hmm. Not sure what to make of this. What with the argument about the girl from 4—it feels weird to still call Embreli by name now that she's, well, you know—last afternoon, you'd think that she would be trying to get herself in Clovis' good books. Opting out of another hunt seems pretty sketchy for someone who was apparently ready to kill back at the bloodbath. But Robin's a hard one to figure out. She could have anything up her sleeve.

The One seems to think this as well, finally disentangling himself from his squabble with Christine to fix his district partner with an appraising glare. "I don't think so."

"Why not?" She fiddles with her bracelet a little, but otherwise keeps her composure. "You don't have any reason to distrust me."

"I'm not sure I have any reason _not _to, after what happened yesterday," Clovis retorts.

Robin pauses a moment, seeming to weigh her options. It's impossible to tell whether she's intimidated or not.

"If you really think I wouldn't have killed that girl," she says again, "why take me out hunting? The way you seem to see things, I'd probably just chicken out and mess everything up again."

"Who's to say you won't run off with our supplies the second we turn our backs? I want to keep you where I can see you."

He turns to the rest of the group, seizing each of us with his hawk-like gaze. It pauses on me, darts to Jendra; then flicks back and forth. I grimace a little bit. Yeesh! This guy doesn't even have to try to be creepy.

"Typhon," he says eventually. "You stand guard. Anyone other than us gets inside this circle and either they're dead or you'll be. Everyone else—" he spits this out distastefully, probably because it includes Christine—"get your weapons and let's go. We're wasting time."

"No telling whose fault that is," I mutter, jokingly enough that Clovis only half-looks like he wants to kill me. Well, he probably does anyway. But that's beside the point.

Christine launches back into her element the instant her rival's more occupied with choosing a good knife than directing the group. Despite her self-righteousness—which wouldn't get on my nerves so much if it was, you know, warranted—she's got much more of a leader's touch than grouchy Clovis. They could always be faking it, but the other two Careers don't seem to object so much to her lofty evaluation of their skills and assignment of roles. Good thing, too. Any more tension and this group would crack like an egg.

Finally having settled on a blade, Clovis rejoins the others and sets off at the head of the pack. Christine sets a brisk pace which he hastens to outdo, the other two trail along after them, and it's not long before they pass through one of the arches and fade into dots on the gravel expanse.

* * *

(Zeetra Creal, Female, District 11)

Emptying the last of today's breakfast onto the ground, I struggle back to my feet and wait for the world to stop spinning. I should have known not to eat so much—it was just some donated nuts and whatever berries I could scrounge—but I wanted to keep up my strength for the baby. It seemed like a good idea at the moment... but with my morning sickness, and the injury in my calf, it wasn't the best—

I lurch forwards again, but this time there's only water left to spew all over the ground. Urghh...

Soft footsteps from behind me. I tense automatically, but it's only Time, emerging from one of the ramshackle houses. He blushes awkwardly when he notices I've been vomiting and turns to leave, but I motion for him to stay. I can't stand being alone, even when my only company is a relative stranger and not the husband I miss so much.

"Ah, thanks. I guess," he mumbles. "Feeling any better? I found some old bedsheets a few doors down. If you're up to it, I could change your bandages."

"In a while," I reply blearily, looking away from the mess in front of me. "Just give me a moment to—"

I stop.

"Eh? Zeetra?"

I try to force out a sound, but my throat won't work. Several figures have appeared on the horizon, and there aren't two or three but _four _of them, and _they're headed this way—!_

Abandoning all reason but instinct, I tear off down the street.

I haven't made it five meters before my ally grabs me from behind and clamps a hand over my mouth. I can't scream; I can't punch; I can hardly kick because my leg is blazing in pain; there's nothing I can do, and they're going to get here any moment, and whatever Time will do won't be enough, and maybe he won't try to help anyway, maybe he'll throw me at the Careers and run... I'll just have to beg, then, and maybe they'll take pity on me and my baby...

"Zeetra. Zeetra!" Time's voice, low and urgent in my ear. "Stop struggling! Just listen to me—"

"B-but—you don't understand—" He surely wants to fight rather than flee; he doesn't have something living inside him, something that needs protection at all costs.

"Zeetra." This time he's calmer and somehow far more commanding. "Do you trust me?"

"What?" Do I trust him? I've only known him for a few days. He's another tribute, so he'll be looking to kill me at one point or the other—but, then again, he was willing to ally with me when he would surely be better off on his own, and aside from looking menacing he's never done anything to make me doubt him so far...

"I said, do you trust me?"

"Y-y-yes?"

"Good." He heaves me to my feet, drags a metal bedstead out of a nearby hovel, and props it upright against the wall. "Then step on. They won't get us up here."

It's now or never. Hoping against hope that I'm making the right choice, I let him guide me onto the roof.


	27. First Clash

Author's Note: And this chapter is brought to you by Obiwanlivesforever! Good thing, too, because I wrote all of 19 words for it in the past several months.

* * *

(Time Wescal, Male, District 10)

I really hope this works.

At the moment, this plan is all we've got going for us. Despite what the sponsors must think of me thanks to my size and training score, I've never been one for confrontation—and although I'd be willing to fight to protect myself and Zee, I can't see how it'd do us much good. One versus four isn't my idea of a fair match, even if they're not the most formidable bunch we've ever had. And that's without Zeetra panicking and inevitably putting herself in harm's way.

So hopefully the Capitol will understand why their highest-scoring tribute and his ally are lying on a rooftop as the Careers close in.

Crawling on my stomach, I inch as near to the edge as I dare. A brief glimpse reveals the pack has just reached the row of houses. With any luck, they'll walk right past us. I doubt they were close enough to notice when we climbed up here. Since our hiding place is completely flat, I don't think we're visible from this angle. We haven't been here long enough to leave many signs of our presence, but there wasn't enough time to retrieve our knife, and the bedframe "ladder" still leans against the wall. Thankful that I kept the hatchet with me, I clutch its handle and listen for the Careers' voices.

"Nothing in this one," calls one of the girls. They still seem to be a distance away, probably at the first house. Thank Panem we avoided that one from the start…

"That doesn't mean no one's here," retorts someone else. I'm nearly certain that's the boy from One.

"Fan out, keep your weapons at the ready," chimes in another girl authoritatively. "Everyone take a building. It doesn't matter if they're hiding; we'll flush them out."

Footsteps crunch on the gravel. _Just keep going on by. Don't look up._

The sickening sound of an opening door prompts bile up my throat. My heartbeat thunders against the roof. It's a wonder whoever it is can't hear it through the ceiling.

Silence reigns for a few seemingly-infinite moments. Then it's broken, horribly, by the unfamiliar voice of the second boy.

"Erm, Christine? Clovis?"

"What?"

"I think someone's been in here."

A flurry of footfalls indicates the other Careers' approach. By the sound of the voices, at least three of them are down there—the speaker boy, the One, and one of the girls.

"How do you know?" demands District One.

"Well, there's a bunch of parachutes lying around…"

"Look!" The female's voice, shrill with triumph. "Someone's left a knife!"

Zeetra whimpers and squirms closer beside me. Her terrified eyes shine amber-bright, dark face contorted with fear. Readjusting my hatchet-free hand, I give one of hers a comforting squeeze. Unfortunately, that's the most I can do at the moment.

"That's it, then," mutters the One. "Robin! Get over here. We've found someone."

"Well, maybe." That's our discoverer. "They've definitely been here, yeah, but they could always have left."

"Not likely," the girl counters. "If they left something like a knife behind, they had to have been in a hurry, and there's a good chance it was because of us. I'd say they either just left—in which case we should be able to catch them—or they're still here."

"In which case," offers the newcomer, "they might ambush us."

"She's right. Stay on guard."

The door hinges wail again, admitting the hunters back outside. _Don't look up. Don't look up. Don't look up._

Is it me, or are their footsteps moving away down the street? I'd love to be able to see what's happening for myself, but I absolutely cannot risk them hearing me. Zeetra's hand clamps around mine like a snare; her frantic breathing hisses in my ear. It's taking everything out of her just to stay silent. Any movement on my part would be suicide.

"Hey, Clovis…"

_Don't look up._

"Does this seem a bit strange to you?"

_Don't look up._

An annoyed grunt. "What? It's a bedframe."

"Yeah, but someone had to have moved it out here."

"So?"

"So, maybe they're hiding nearby."

It's only a little squeak on Zeetra's part, but it's loud enough. One of the Careers lets out a sharp holler, his allies come pelting back, Zeetra shoots me a glance of pure guilt and terror, and once again I'm forced to react to a situation completely beyond my control.

"Get down and stay down," I whisper, forcing her onto the floor. "Whatever you do, don't let them see you."

"But-"

I exhale deeply and raise my hatchet. "I can handle this."

For her sake and mine, I pray I'm right.

* * *

(Robin Zabat, Female, District 1)

Time rears up out of nowhere, hatched lifted high to snatch the rays of the morning sun. The Career pack responds as one, weapons brandished and aimed with surprising synchronization. Somehow, all I can think of is the irony of the moment. Left by ourselves we're always two seconds away from killing each other, but we're suddenly allies when faced with an axe-swinging giant.

And, believe you me, "giant" is not an exaggeration. This guy is _huge. _A foot higher than the tallest of us, at least. Was he ever that big in training? I try not to let it get the better of me as I notch an arrow into my crossbow, but man alive—

Christine acts with the speed of lightning. The silver blur of her knife flashes towards the 10; equally quickly, it deflects off his hatchet blade. Clovis uses the moment he's preoccupied to launch a strike of his own. Time brings his weapon around, but he's not quite fast enough. The dagger catches in the handle; not quite slowed, it skids down the length of the wood and leaves a deep scar behind it before clattering onto the roof.

My district partner swears violently. Christine grimaces but otherwise doesn't comment, putting all her strength into another attack. Perhaps shaken from the damage to his weapon, Time doesn't attempt to block again, merely dodges. It's successful, although I notice his gaze flick anxiously to the spot behind him where it landed.

"Robin!" roars Clovis. "Get a move on it!"

I start, ready to retort that Jendra isn't doing anything either—the Two's just lingering by the sidelines, fingering his pickaxe almost anxiously—but have second thoughts about getting on our leader's bad side in the middle of a fight. There's nothing much Jendra can do with a close-range weapon in this situation, anyway.

My hands aren't used to the feel of the crossbow. I loose an arrow, but it merely takes a chip out of the stucco wall. I won't deny that it's a bit of a relief. No one will be able to fault me for not trying, and if I do hit him, well, it'll be more down to dumb luck than any intent on my part. Yes, eventually I'll have to do what I have to do, but at this point in the Games, I'd rather keep that as a last resort…

I pause for a moment to glance at my allies. Clovis and Christine are still darting around in front of the house, giving Time no mercy from their constant assailment. Jendra's drawn in a bit closer without making any aggressive moves. Just so nobody will have any more reason to question my objective, I fire a couple more arrows. One, two, both go whizzing past Time's head. The next is a little closer, but doesn't cause him to do anything more than look back again.

Why does he keep doing that? Is he trying to keep note of where they all go, so he can use them against us, or—

Or is somebody up there with him?

Experimentally, I send another arrow in the same rough direction of the last. This time the Ten jerks his head back whilst side-stepping a knife, which still misses but slashes against the skin of his thigh. Growling in pain, he staggers and seizes a handful of his pants to press up against the wound.

My pulse rises. He wouldn't just throw away his guard like that without good reason. And it looks like our two beloved leaders don't yet notice said good reason.

Jendra has, however. He jerks his head uncomfortably up at the roof and sends me a stare that proves we're both wondering the same thing.

Would it be wise to tell? Obviously, letting the others in on an opponent's weakness would go some ways towards erasing their doubts about us. On the other hand, neither of them have actually acted on their suspicions, so maybe it's best to just leave things as they are? But Time's definitely competition, and if we don't get rid of him now, who will? Just because he's not a Career doesn't mean he won't become a strong finalist. And, all sentiment aside, that's the one thing I can't afford—

I open my mouth, but can't decide what to say before Christine lets out a shriek.

It takes me a moment to figure out why, since she doesn't seem injured, but it's apparent once I realize Time has set aside his hatchet for one of the thrown knives. It looks like all of our long-range weapons, apart from my bow, are now in his hands. Glaring irately down at us, the Ten sends his first missile straight for the Two. It's far more accurate a shot than I would have given him credit for—Christine's skilled evasive roll barely removes her from its trajectory. Hesitation put on hold, I let another arrow fly. He ducks, but puts too much pressure on his injured leg and stumbles. A shriek too tiny to have been made by someone that size sounds in response.

"Come on!" Christine shouts, rejuvenated by this sudden turn of events. Snatching up the fallen knife, she races for the bedframe still balanced against the wall and begins climbing up it. Jendra races over to support the makeshift ladder, with Clovis and me in tow.

Time's face appears over the side of the roof, scowl more prominent than ever. Another knife whistles downwards and embeds its tip in the dirt between Clovis' feet. Enraged, the boy hurls a fistful of gravel up at his opponent; it hits Time full in the face and spurs a bout of indignant coughing.

Christine's made more progress now, lithe body gaining height with her mounting excitement. One of the fallen knives is clamped in her teeth. Sensing that he's at the end of his rope, Time retreats once more towards the middle of the roof. An unwelcome twinge goes through me. We both know he's done for. Maybe he's gone to comfort his ally?

_Stop thinking like that. _This isn't in any way my fault. It's not like I gave them away. I didn't even contribute, really—

Unexpectedly, the hatchet flashes down again just as Christine grips the overhang of the roof. I think for a moment that she's about to lose her hands, but she's just spared that. A scarlet gash appears across her forearms. Red droplets spray through the air as the blade completes its deadly arc. The Two loses her grip and crashes down backwards, sending the bedframe clattering to the ground where it snaps apart in an explosion of screws.

We all stare at Time for a frozen moment, uncertain if he's about to knife us all or not. His chest heaves and blood trickles down his thigh, yet he continues to tower indomitably over us. Eventually, the silence seems to finalize the fact that the battle is over, and we return in cautious defeat to Christine.

The girl groans as Jendra helps her back up to her feet. She's covered in dust and bruises, but doesn't seem too worse for wear apart from the obvious injury.

"How is it?" I ask. "Anything we need to go back to camp for?"

Christine winces, switching the hand she uses to clamp down on the scars. "Not too bad, I think. It's certainly not down to the bone. I could use some disinfectant and some bandages, though."

"Let's go, then," says Jendra quickly, sending a nervous glance back up at Time. Whether from pain or a desire to intimidate us—which, if so, is pretty darn successful—the Ten hasn't moved a muscle.

Clovis lets out a cross between a sigh and a snarl.

"Well, I'm _sorry_ that he had a hatchet," Christine lashes out, words acrid. "Maybe if I hadn't been the only one to think of climbing up there, we would have killed him by now."

"Maybe if _you_ hadn't been so up-and-righteous in training, we could have had him in the pack."

"Go die."

"Same to you."

We gather up the weapons we can, keeping a watchful eye on Time—he's fair enough to let us retrieve the ones nearby, but raises a dagger when we get too close to the building—and end up with most of the arrows and about half the knives. It's no great loss, as we still have plenty at the Cornucopia. Still, given this failure and our mediocre performance at the bloodbath, I can't imagine the sponsors are too willing to donate anything new.

As we trail away from the row of houses, however, it appears this morning wasn't a total waste of time.

* * *

(Bellanca Groven, Female, District 3)

Crap, crap, crap, crap, _crap! _I'd been so wrapped up in my work—transforming the building I'd been inhabiting into a veritable gold mine of pits and snares—that I must not have heard the Careers approaching at all. True, they were a ways across the ruined city from me, but—still! Of course, I _had _to go out for a water break at the exact moment they were passing by, and I _had _to bolt instead of just trying to hide. How pathetic can I get?

I'm a pretty fast runner, though, and at this point I'm confident I've got a lot more endurance left in me than the Careers do. From the way they're straggling along back there, I'd guess that they've been fighting someone before me, and at least one of them seems injured as well. So as long as I keep on going and stay out of the range of their weapons, I should be fine.

I veer right when I see the creek approaching, but ahead is the barren expanse of gravel, and I can't trust myself not to lose steam over such a long distance. With barely a moment's reluctance, I splash through the shallows—luckily it's not very deep here, and the pebbles don't trip me up at all—and make a beeline for the fringes of the forest.

_Thwunk! _An arrow plunges into the narrow sapling beside me, sending a shudder up and down its trunk. Not sparing a glance back, I push on ahead. Branches whip past my face; roots snatch at my feet; my lungs burn from exertion. Only when the sound of pursuing footsteps has been overshadowed by the gentle whispering of leaves do I finally stop for air.

I just hope I've gone far enough.


End file.
